Morning broke in quiet golden hues, and the forest welcomed the light as though it had been holding its breath all night.
Eira stood at the edge of the glade, her bare feet sinking into dew-kissed moss. She didn't move, not yet. The sunlight poured through the canopy in streams—thin and soft—and in it, the world shimmered.
Solen stepped beside her, his cloak slung over one shoulder, his eyes on her more than the light. "It's never looked like this before," he said softly.
Eira smiled, brushing her fingers over her braid. "It has. I just couldn't see it."
The truth of that settled between them like a hush. She had spent so long buried under what-ifs and if-onlys, she'd forgotten how simple beauty could be—how freely it could flow from the world when you stopped guarding yourself against it.
She turned to him. "Can I show you something?"
He nodded, and she led him to the grove beyond the sleeping roots, where a stream curled like silver ribbon between the trees. They passed through ferns and low bramble, and there—where the sun broke in full—was a place Eira hadn't stepped into since she was a child.
A circle of stones. A waterfall like weeping glass. A hollow tree trunk half-covered in moss.
And a little bench, carved with the initials E. W.
Solen ran a hand over the wood. "You carved this?"
"When I was eight." She sat down and patted the space beside her. "It was supposed to be a bench for someone else too. I just didn't know who yet."
He sat.
Silence passed between them, thick with something almost sacred. A quiet understanding. The forest had given this moment to them—not in a grand gesture, but in stillness.
"It's strange," Eira murmured, "how pain changes shape. I thought it would harden me. Make me distant. But all it did was teach me where the soft places are."
Solen looked at her. "And what do you see now?"
She met his gaze, sunlight turning her eyes honey-gold. "You."
For the first time, there was no ache in saying it. No lingering guilt or fear that it would slip away. She didn't feel like she was betraying the girl who once wept at night or the one who had to walk alone to learn how strong she was.
She was all of them. And she was here.
Solen reached up, his fingers gently tucking a curl behind her ear. The light kissed her skin, danced in her hair.
"You look like you're made of sunlight," he whispered.
She laughed, a soft, startled sound. "Maybe I am."
They stayed there for a while—long enough for shadows to shift and petals to drift past on the breeze. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he traced circles on her hand.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," he murmured. "Not with me."
"I know." Her voice was barely audible. "But I'm not afraid to be anymore. Because now I know where I go when I break."
Solen touched her heart. "Here?"
She nodded. "And here too," she whispered, placing her hand gently over his.
Later, when they stood, Eira stepped beneath a shaft of golden light. The sun poured through her hair, and Solen stopped in his tracks.
She turned, puzzled. "What is it?"
He shook his head slowly. "I just—I don't think I've ever seen anything as beautiful."
The words would have once made her uncomfortable, unsure what to do with such tender honesty. But now she only smiled and held out her hand.
"Come stand with me. The light's big enough for two."
And when he did, it felt like the forest held its breath again—watching them, blessing them. Not with magic or spells or secrets.
Just with sunlight.
And love.