The fire crackled low.
Its embers cast golden shadows across Elira's face as she traced her fingers over the brittle parchment. Her brows furrowed, her breath slow and steady—but her storm brewed just beneath the surface.
Caelen sat beside her, his body aching from the weight of the Sorrowbound. Their pain was a second heartbeat now—constant, heavy, loud.
Elira looked up.
"There's a ritual in here," she said, her voice quiet. "I could take part of your curse. Split it. Ease the weight."
Caelen's heart twisted.
"No."
She flinched.
"It would destroy you," he said, the words rough. "You weren't meant to carry this. I won't let it happen."
"I'm not fragile," she snapped. "I've carried worse."
"I know that," he said. "Your strength holds me together. But this… this curse isn't just pain. It's rot. It eats you from the inside."
She gripped his hands, eyes blazing.
"And what eats you eats me, too. I see it, Caelen. Every day, I feel you slipping further away. I won't stand by and watch you die in pieces."
"I can't lose you," he breathed. "I love you too much."
She went still.
Then—she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in a kiss fierce and brief.
"And I love you too much," she whispered, "to let you carry this alone."
He closed his eyes, her forehead resting against his.
The fire popped.
Their breath synced.
The world outside the circle of firelight was cold and cruel.
But here, wrapped in shadows and heartache, they had each other.
Elira chose him.
All of him.
And Caelen held her close, knowing the end loomed nearer with every step.
But love—raw and defiant—would carry them through the dark.