Serenya said it almost with reverence. She knew how to recognise on Elyra the trace of the higher winds, of the nights when only song and fire kept the shadows at bay. There was a new gravity in the way she sat, in the way she fixed her gaze on the details of the room, as if assessing every exit, every danger. Elyra was no longer just the friend of youthful escapades; she was someone who had learned to read the world as one reads a cornice under snow, searching for where it might give way.
Elyra smiled broadly.
"And you have not? Look at you: sharp edges everywhere. I half-feared this place would turn you into ice."
Serenya laughed softly, looking toward the window.
"Sometimes I feel that it has. This Citadel is so silent, Elyra… some days I forget what my voice sounds like."
The confession hung between them for a moment, heavier than any snowflake. Outside, the last light melted across the terraces, painting railings and pinnacles in copper, but inside the chamber every word seemed to be absorbed by the walls without leaving an echo. Serenya realised she had not said anything so honest in a very long time. Not to Taelthorn, never to her advisors. And yet, with Elyra, the words had found their way on their own, like water recognizing the old riverbed.
Elyra leaned toward her, eyes glinting.
"Oh, do not say that. I can still hear the fire crackle in you. You used to dream of towers of light, remember? Tell me you have not stopped dreaming."
The question was not innocent. In the valleys, Serenya's dreams had been a shared joke, something shouted into the wind between races and climbs. Here, in the Citadel, dreams had become weapons, bargaining chips, invisible chains. Serenya felt the weight of all the nights she had stared at the stars from the northern balcony, wondering at what point her desire to build something great had turned into the obligation to uphold it.
Serenya hesitated; her voice grew low.
"I still dream. More than ever. But here… dreams feel dangerous."
Serenya did not dare look directly at Elyra as she said it. She toyed with the edge of her sleeve, following with her fingers the stiff seam of Taelthorn's emblem knowing that in this place, a dream spoken poorly could turn into an accusation, into a suspicion of treason or weakness. She had learned to swallow the darkest ones, to dress them in prudence and calculation. Admitting she still had them was like acknowledging that a part of her that refused to obey entirely.
Elyra snorted, shaking her head.
"Dreams are always dangerous, Serenya. That is half the fun."
Her words drew a fleeting smile from Serenya. Elyra spoke as if danger were an old acquaintance one learned to invite to the fire, not something to shove under the bed. That lightness was not irresponsibility; Serenya knew that well. It was the way Elyra refused to let fear take a seat at the table. In the valley, that attitude had dragged Serenya out of her inner cave more than once. Now, in the Citadel, that same attitude was a reckless spark in a room full of powder.
Serenya laughed faintly, her gaze drifting back to the window.
"Do you ever regret it? Pushing me toward Taelthorn… Making me leave the green valleys for this…"
As she said "this", she made a broad gesture, encompassing both the cold luxury of her chambers and the shadows pooling in the corners, the sense of always being watched, always judged. It was not an open accusation, but there was a wound in her words that had not yet finished healing. Part of her wanted Elyra to deny any responsibility; another, quieter part wanted her to admit that she had also been afraid for her.
Elyra's expression softened.
"Regret it? No… worry, perhaps. I pushed you because the valleys were too small for you. You were bigger than them, Serenya. Taelthorn gave you a crown—"
"Or a cage," she retorted bitterly. "You will never know which."
The answer came faster than Serenya intended. There was an edge in her voice that was not meant for Elyra, but for the Citadel itself, for Taelthorn and for the version of herself that had accepted that fate without measuring all its consequences. Yet when she saw Elyra shrink back just a little, as if she had taken the blow, Serenya felt instant remorse. If anyone had truly believed in her greatness, it had been Elyra.
Elyra squeezed Serenya's hand firmly, conciliatory.
"Then break the bars if you feel imprisoned. You have always been the one who climbs higher than anyone. And if you forget who you are, I will remind you… as always."
The words slid out with painful ease. There was as much truth in them as promise. Elyra did not offer simple solutions, did not promise to rescue her from the Citadel or tear the crown from her head. Instead, she handed back the responsibility that had always been hers: to choose what to do with what had been placed in her hands. In that tightening of fingers, Serenya felt the strength of all the childhood afternoons when Elyra had forced her to look beyond the next peak.
Serenya felt a tear run down her cheek as she rested her forehead against Elyra's.
"Always?" she whispered.
The question came laden with more than it named: fear of losing her again, of the time that had separated them, of the Citadel's weight changing them into something unrecognizable. "Always" sounded, there, far too big, almost reckless. And yet, in that moment, Serenya needed to cling to a word that was positive instead of "perhaps", "it depends", or "as long as Taelthorn allows it".
Elyra smiled, also through tears.
"Always."
The echo of that promise seemed to lodge itself in the crystalline walls, defying the cold and silence that had ruled there since before Serenya arrived. For a moment they remained silent, with the weight of years and decisions upon them, as if that "Always" had opened a breach in the Citadel's stillness that they did not yet know whether it would save them… or place them in even greater danger.