I bring wildflowers—dandelions torn from the forest squall beyond the city wall, blooms so bright they light up the gray slate stones with yellow flame.
My finger trails on the first stone: Alaric. The mortar from the capital’s walls still dusts his edges. I kneel deeper, damp soil under my knees, the petals crushed in my palm.
“Alaric,” I whisper. “You would’ve hated peace. But you’d want the world rebuilt.” I press the flower into the earth, torn petals brushed with dirt and memory.
Beside me, Kragna comes to the edge. He watches me in silence until I place more blooms. Tulin—hero in broken light. Darya—laugher of embers. Each name held like a breath too sacred to exhale.
“These were the best of us,” I say, voice rough with soil and sorrow.
Crackling footfall behind me—he kneels beside me, so close I can feel his bone heat through cloak. He places something on the stones without a sound.
An old troll charm: a carved iron sigil bent through ritual forms—something meant to protect, ward off evil. It gleams faintly under moonlight, light catching on weathered runes.
He whispers, voice low as mist: “They died fighting. Not everyone gets that.”
I close my eyes. His words land like a promise on my skin.
Crushed flowers, tears, soil—this unholy ground becomes holy with the weight of our vow.
I shake, breath catching.
He touches my hand—warm fingers around mine. We sit in silence, letting the night cradle us.
When we stand, I brush my hair, full of starlight, onto my shoulder. He steps back.
But I don’t move.
We walk out of the graveyard, the city hollow beneath us. The winds flip our cloaks. Cold air tastes like guilt and grace.
Then we head for the hills.
I lean into him as we climb the winding path past scorched trees, past shards of bridges we once built. The rocks remember our footsteps. Each step a prayer whispered between promises.
We arrive at the old bridge—the one we used to ghost under before wars and crowns and broken treaties. Its stones are still sound, moss eaten into crevices, moonlight pooling around the arches.
Chill night air stirs, and there she is—Charen, perched on the bridge edge, her web stretched above: “I see you banging, don’t mind me.” The glow of her quips bounces across moss and shadow.
I laugh. Kragna shakes his head, battle-scar edges softening as humor warms his tongue.
Veeto lumbers up carrying booze in rattling bottles, breath sweet as regret. He throws me a cup—wine thick as blood and comfort.
Harriet coils behind the stones, sniffing the air for threats—or maybe just us. I crouch and scratch one of her many ears. Her snort is rumbled content. She leans into the touch.
I sip the wine, copper and heat drifting down. Kragna stands beside me, silent, as the moon crawls the face of the bridge.
We don’t speak. Words feel too loud for this quiet resurrection of souls.
Fingers curled together, we sit on collapsed stone bricks. Stars tremble above. The city lies behind us—a broken ember that we’ve chosen to protect.
Tonight, we choose the old woods. The sound of rushing river below, leaves whispering ancient lullabies.
In this stillness, amid grief, blood, politics, promises—love breathes.
And hopeful as fragile as moonlight on stone, it holds us together.
The mist wrapsus like silk as we walk through the beneath the old bridge. My boots sink into dew-heavy grass, soft as feathers coming undone. The air tastes of wet moss and hope—not bright blooms, but faint promises that something green can grow through dust. I lean into Kragna’s side, letting his shape steady me: broad shoulders, steady breath, armor faintly warm beneath cloak.
We don’t say much at first. Words feel awkward where silence carries all the weight. The mist closes around us—thick and alive—so that the world vanishes into hushed grey and our footsteps. We’re two figures swallowed by quiet, hearts pounding like distant drums in rhythm.
