Morning light crept through the thick drapes of Lysandra's chamber, casting a soft glow over tangled sheets and discarded garments.
She stirred first.
Her eyes opened slowly, hazy from sleep, heart still aching from what had transpired the night before. She turned, expecting warmth. A glance. A hand.
But the other side of the bed was cold.
Empty.
Caveen was gone.
Her breath caught in her throat as she sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her gaze darted to the doorway—still slightly ajar, as if he hadn't bothered to close it behind him. No note. No glance. No trace of the fire they'd shared.
She quickly dressed and stormed out of the chamber, fury and shame mixing in her veins like poison.
—
Down the halls of Ravenshade, she passed the guards like a ghost, her footsteps echoing louder than her presence. Her face was blank, but her aura brimmed with unspoken wrath.
He left. Just like that. After everything.
As she entered her private training hall, she didn't wait for the usual rituals. She flung her cloak to the side and stepped barefoot onto the sacred runes etched into the marble floor.
Her palms ignited with raw magic.
Fine, she told herself. If I can't rely on him, I'll rely on power.
She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply before whispering an incantation in ancient tongue. The air around her shimmered—crackling with heat and energy—as her blood awakened the storm within.
The ground trembled slightly.
Flames licked her fingertips. Her hair lifted with the static. In her anger, her magic soared higher, faster, sharper.
And she welcomed it.
—
Meanwhile, in the war chamber buried deep beneath Ravenshade's keep, Caveen stood beside Alaric and Carlos, studying maps and magical wards etched in glowing ink.
He looked composed. Cold. Distant.
As if last night hadn't happened.
Alaric studied him for a moment, his brow arched. "You've barely said a word all morning."
Caveen didn't flinch. "There's nothing worth saying."
Carlos exchanged a glance with Alaric but said nothing, deciding not to pry. The tension in the room was thick enough already.
But even as Caveen pointed to the northern borders and discussed Council movement, a sliver of his mind drifted.
To her.
To the way she had surrendered beneath him. The way her eyes had silently begged him to stay.
And yet, he hadn't.
Because if he let himself care, even for a moment—he'd fall again.
And this time, he wasn't sure he'd survive it.
For the entire day, they acted like strangers.
Lysandra passed by Caveen in the grand halls of Ravenshade, her eyes flickering once toward him—but his gaze was locked ahead, cold and distant. At the war table, they spoke only when strategy demanded it. No glances. No accidental touches. No words meant just for the two of them.
But come nightfall, something shifted.
As the castle stilled and moonlight bathed the sleeping fortress in silver, Lysandra sat at the edge of her bed, heart tight in her chest. She stared at the door, not knowing if she hoped he would come… or feared it.
And then, he did.
The door creaked open without a knock. No words were exchanged. No apologies. No explanations.
Only fire.
Caveen stepped inside, eyes shadowed and full of heat. Lysandra didn't move—didn't speak. She simply stood and met him halfway, their mouths colliding in a kiss that burned of everything they refused to say.
It was rough, desperate, wordless.
He pushed her against the wall, his hands tangled in her hair. She clung to him like he was both her salvation and her ruin. They moved to the bed in tangled urgency—clothes discarded, breaths shallow, hearts thunderous.
He worshipped her with his hands, his mouth, his body—but never with his words.
And in the stillness after, when her breath finally evened, he stood.
No lingering touches. No lingering stares.
He walked out into the night like a shadow vanishing with the dawn.
The next morning, they passed in the hallway again.
As if nothing had happened.
As if their bodies hadn't spoken in the dark what their hearts screamed in silence.
Lysandra's chest ached—but she kept her chin high.
Caveen looked right through her—but his jaw clenched ever so slightly, betraying the war within.
And so the cycle repeated.
Night after night, he came.
Each time without warning. Each time with the same fire and silence. Each time, she let him in.
And each morning, he was gone before the light touched the window.
Weeks passed in this cruel rhythm.
They were strangers by day.
Lovers by night.
Prisoners to their own pride.
Seraphine began to notice Lysandra's dull eyes during breakfast. Alaric watched Caveen with quiet suspicion. Carlos said nothing—but his knowing glances spoke volumes.
Everyone felt it.
The tension.
The ache.
The unspoken heartbreak.
But neither Lysandra nor Caveen dared break the cycle. Because to talk… would be to shatter the fragile world they had built.
And neither of them was ready for that.