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I steady myself, forcing deep, uneven breaths.

“I saw it. I felt it.” My voice trembles. “But . . . I . . . I couldn’t. The memories . . . they—” My breath hitches.

“They swallowed me. I—I wasn’t fast enough. I couldn’t breathe.”

Ash stares at me for a moment, studying my face. Without a word, he walks back to his bag and rummages through it, pulling a glass bottle of deeper amber from the fabric and popping the top. “Good thing I brought this. Looks like you could use some.”

I eye the bottle, my hands still shaking, before taking it. “Where did you get this?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

Ash grins, some of his usual smugness returning. “Borrowed it this morning on our way out of the tavern.”

“Borrowed? Or stole?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Lyra, you wound me.” His grin widens into a full smirk. “You think so little of me? I simply borrowed it while nobody was looking.” He laughs, but I can still see the worry lingering in his eyes.

I drink deeply from the bottle before handing it back. The burn going down my throat is oddly comforting. With a sigh, I sink down beside Ash against a tree, the rough, bruised bark pressing into my back as I tilt my head, gazing up at the bright sky above us. The steady sound of the river flowing just a few feet away fills the silence.

Ash always seems to know how to lighten a mood.

We pass the bottle back and forth, laughing and talking about nothing in particular. His stories of half-truths and exaggerated adventures fill the air.

He tells me about how he and Oberon met and about the battles they fought side by side.

Ash has never talked about his past like this before, and I have never asked. We all have demons we prefer to keep buried. Maybe it is the booze that keeps him talking, or maybe he just needs someone to listen. His entertaining tales are his shield, I realize. He spins them wildly, each more ridiculous than the last, never quite giving the whole truth away.

But between the jokes and smirks, I see glimpses of something real.

He speaks of the Borderlands between realms, where he spent most of his life among smugglers, mercenaries, and outcasts. His charm was his armor, his humor a weapon, but surviving in the Borderlands requires more than a silver tongue.

He pauses, lost in thought, and I let my mind wander. I can’t imagine why anyone would choose to spend so much time there. I don’t know exactly how old Ash is, and among the Fae, lifespans can stretch for thousands of years. It’s considered taboo to ask. Yet from the way Ash speaks of his past, I guess he has lived through centuries, most of them in that harsh, unforgiving place.

Eventually, he continues, recalling how he once was reckless. “Well . . . more reckless than I am now,” he chuckles lightly, correcting himself. He speaks of testing limits no one else would dare, of caring little for his own life. He speaks of his magic, and I know he is powerful, perhaps one of the most powerful beings in the realm, but there is always an undertone of bitterness I don’t understand.

He tells me he lost his family long ago, and the grief shaped him, teaching him to keep others at a distance. Two centuries ago, that recklessness nearly killed him. He lost a bet to the wrong group, was jumped, and allowed them to nearly finish him off. He was done with life, done with trying, ready to surrender to the nothingness he felt he deserved.

It was Oberon who found him, bleeding and broken, and refused to leave him behind. A complete stranger at the time. At first, Ash had refused his help. He was content to die. But Oberon would not give up. He healed him, not just his body, but his spirit. It was there, in that moment, that their bond was forged.

Since then, they have been inseparable. Brothers, not by blood, but by fire and sacrifice, by centuries of shared battles, laughter, and loss. Ash follows Oberon without question, without hesitation. Through life, through death, and beyond.

Their friendship goes both ways. Ash is the only one Oberon truly trusts, the only one who can challenge him, keep him grounded, and remind him who he is at his core.

One thing is clear: no matter the world’s judgment, no matter the battles yet to come, Ash will stand by Oberon. That is certain. That is their brotherhood, and nothing can break it.

Maybe it is the liquor, but I don’t mind. I enjoy learning about him. For a moment, things feel . . . easy.

The sun dips low, casting the forest in a warm, fading glow. The bottle lies empty between us. “We should head back,” Ash says, rising to his feet.

I push myself up, but the world tilts. I wobble, blinking in surprise at how much I apparently had to drink.

Ash extends his arm toward me, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

Without hesitation, I take it. Maybe it is the booze moving for me.

We make our way back along the winding path, the town slowly coming back into view. The cobblestone streets gleam in the twilight.

We talk. Laugh. I stumble a few times, Ash steadying me with a teasing remark each time. And for the first time in a long time . . . I feel happy.

It feels strange. But I don’t hate it.