The woods were quieter than usual.
Even the wind seemed to hush as Caelum and Serai made camp beneath an ancient willow. Its roots curled like gnarled fingers around a stone outcropping, offering a modest bit of shelter. A small fire crackled between them the first they dared to light in days.
Caelum sat cross-legged, sharpening the edge of a rusted dagger they'd found on a fallen soldier days before. The metal sang against the stone with each stroke. His eyes flicked across the shadows, always watching.
Serai sat nearby, legs drawn to her chest, chin resting on her knees. She stared into the fire, golden strands catching the flicker like dying sunlight.
He glanced at her.
Then back to the blade.
Then again.
She hadn't blinked in some time.
"…Cold?" he asked, voice rough from disuse.
She turned slowly, then shook her head. "No."
A pause.
"I can take the first watch," she offered softly.
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "You sure?"
Her nod was small, almost nervous like she didn't expect to be trusted.
Caelum finally set down the dagger and lay back, using his cloak as a pillow. "Wake me if anything feels wrong."
Serai gave no promise.
She just watched him close his eyes.
He didn't sleep long.
When he awoke, the fire was dead.
The woods were too still.
His eyes flew open.
"Serai?" he whispered.
No answer.
He sat up sharply, breath catching in his throat. He scanned the clearing no golden hair, no figure by the tree.
The air felt colder than before. Heavy.
"Serai?" louder now.
Still nothing.
He stood, knees stiff. The dagger in his hand again without him thinking.
Then something whispered.
Not in words.
Not in a voice.
Just a shift in the air — to the north.
He ran.
Branches scraped his arms. His boots thudded on wet soil. Moonlight danced through broken tree limbs.
Then—
A flash of white. Fabric.
He followed.
A few more steps, and he broke through a line of thick brush.
There she was.
Standing in front of a tree.
A massive, withered oak, blackened with age. Symbols carved deep into its bark — ancient, unreadable. Its trunk pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
Serai stood still, facing it.
"…Serai?" Caelum asked, breathless.
She didn't turn.
He took a step closer.
She flinched.
"Don't…" she whispered, almost trembling. "Don't come closer."
"Why? What is this?" Caelum stopped.
"I… I heard something," she said. "It was calling me. From inside."
She turned slightly. Her eyes shimmered, uncertain again. "I thought… it might be my mother."
Caelum's jaw tightened.
"It's not," he said.
"I know." Her voice cracked. "But I wanted to believe. Just for a second."
They stood in silence.
Then, without a word, Serai stepped away from the tree and back toward him.
He met her halfway.
Their fingers found each other again — not firm this time, but trembling.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wasn't thinking."
"You were hoping," Caelum replied. "That's not a crime."
They walked back toward the dying fire, their shadows long behind them.
Neither of them looked back at the tree.
But in its bark, something new had carved itself.
A sigil.
Like a watching eye.
Still pulsing.
When they returned to camp beneath the ancient willow, the fire was no more than a glow — barely enough to ward off the creeping cold.
Neither spoke.
They simply laid down on the dirt and moss, the hush of the woods thick around them. This time, there was no watch.
No one kept guard.
Serai turned to her side.
So did Caelum.
Their faces, pale in the dying firelight, were facing one another.
A breath apart.
Their fingers didn't hold this time but they remained close, hovering like a promise, not quite touching.
And in that quiet, for the first time since the war,
they both slept.
Without fear.
Without dreams.
Just… silence.
Together.