The mist curled upward, trailing across my fingers like breath—warm, knowing. I didn't move. I let it soak into my skin.
A quiet settled over the Council Hall—not silence, not awe, but something deeper. Reverence. The kind that made your ribs feel too small for your heart.
The council hadn't sat down again.
They were still standing.
Watching.
Waiting.
I could feel their questions pressing into the air like wet parchment: What kind of Nullseer will she be?What truth will she tell? What story will she break open next?
And more pressingly: Does she belong here?
The answer rose inside me—not in words, but in weight.
Because I didn't sit in that chair to become what they expected.
I sat to refuse expectation entirely.
To choose story over legacy. Compassion over choreography. Magic over memory.
"I won't be your ornament," I said softly. The acoustics carried it anyway. "I won't be your proof-of-peace. I'm not here to play seer for hire."
A breath caught somewhere to my right.
"I'm here because the forest chose me."
I stood again—slowly, carefully. Not because I was afraid. Because I wanted them to feel it. The choice. The shift. The new shape of things.
"And I choose the forest back."
Antic made a soft noise—something between a laugh and a choked-up sigh.
"Hot," he muttered.
Dolly hummed in agreement. "Speech like that and I might propose."
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to catch Grin's faint nod. Not approval. Not judgment.
Recognition.
As if to say: Yes. This is the turning point.
I stepped down from the dais.
And as I passed Elara, I reached out—brief, instinctive—and took her hand.
She flinched, just slightly.
I didn't pull. I didn't push.
Just… held.
For one second.
One heartbeat.
The kind of touch that says: I see you. I see all of it. And I'm not afraid.
When I let go, her mouth parted like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
Good.
Let her feel it too.
I walked straight to Antic, and to no one's surprise, he opened his arms like I was a missing lyric he'd been waiting to sing again.
"You were radiant," he murmured, pulling me into his side like he didn't care who saw.
"And you're sweaty," I muttered.
He grinned. "Only for you, love."
I didn't swat him away.
For once, I let it linger.
Let my hand rest against his chest.
And just like that—something shifted again. Softer this time. Internal.
I could feel his heartbeat.
And the story, wherever it was watching from, turned its head to listen.
The city hummed beneath us.
Not in sound—but in memory. In potential. In the way stone holds warmth long after the fire's gone out.
We sat on the rooftop of a half-collapsed bathhouse, far enough from the square that no one dared follow. The moons were twin slivers above, slicing through cloud like soft blades. Lanterns flickered below like fireflies that'd forgotten how to fly.
Grin had found the place.
Of course he had.
"It used to be sacred," he murmured, tracing a broken tile. "Still remembers what it meant to cleanse."
He sat cross-legged, boots off, coat draped beside him like a loyal ghost. He looked oddly peaceful—more mountain than man. As if the coming war had already whispered its secrets to him, and he was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
Dolly sprawled beside a vine-draped pillar, legs kicked up, lips stained plum from the fruit she'd swiped on the way here.
"If I die tomorrow," she sighed dramatically, "bury me somewhere sexy."
"Darlin', even your corpse would flirt with the undertaker," Antic said.
She smirked, tilting her head toward me. "You gonna let him say that about me, No Eyes?"
"I'm still deciding whether to bury him," I said, but it came out softer than I meant it.
He caught that.
Of course he did.
Antic never missed softness when it snuck in—he chased it like it owed him rent.
He sat just close enough that our knees brushed when he shifted. He hadn't touched me again since the Council, but his energy had. It wrapped around my ankles. Sat on my shoulder. Curled in my hair like second breath.
I could still feel his heartbeat.
I wasn't sure if I hated that or needed it.
"I saw you hesitate," I said quietly.
Antic blinked. "When?"
"When I took the thirteenth chair."
He ran a hand through his hair—messy again, as if he couldn't stand to look composed for longer than ten minutes. "I didn't want to. But yeah. I did."
"Why?"
"Because it felt like a goodbye."
He wasn't teasing now. His voice lost its lilt. Just raw vowels and honesty.
"And I wasn't ready," he added.
Neither was I.
That was the thing.
I had stood in front of the council like a thunderstorm—brazen, rooted, untouchable. But now, under the quiet stars, my bones felt loose. Like I could fall apart without permission.
Antic leaned back on his elbows, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sky.
"You remember that first night?" he said. "The one with the sapfire and the ghost with too many teeth?"
"Barely."
"You were furious."
"You were insufferable."
"I still am," he grinned. "But you stayed."
I didn't respond.
Because he was right.
I had stayed.
Through the lies, the games, the bleeding timelines and weeping forests—I had stayed with him.
"Why?" he asked.
I hated that he asked it like it wasn't obvious.
"Because you saw me," I whispered. "Not just the Nullseer. Me. And you didn't flinch."
His hand brushed mine. Not grasping. Just… there. Warm and waiting.
"I flinch at most things," he said. "Taxes. Ancient curses. Large ducks. But never you."
I looked at him, truly looked—and for once, I let it show.
The ache.
The hope.
The terror of being known.
And he didn't tease. He didn't grin.
He just looked back. Quiet and wild and real.
And for the first time, I realized:
He wasn't waiting for me to fall into his arms.
He was holding out his own and hoping.
That was worse.
That was everything.
Antic's hand still hovered near mine, his fingers so close they stirred the air.
He wasn't looking at me now. Not directly. He was watching the stars—pretending, maybe, that if he looked at something big enough, he wouldn't have to admit how small this moment made him feel.
And I understood that.
I understood it too well.
So I moved my hand.
Just enough.
Not to hold.
Just to touch.
Our pinkies brushed. Barely.
But it sent something spiraling through my ribs. Something sharp and sweet. Like a bell rung in a closed room.
Antic inhaled—sharp. Like he hadn't meant to.
Like it had startled him, too.
His head turned. Slowly.
Eyes met.
And the space between us pulsed.
It wasn't romantic, not in the clean way poems write about. It was messy. Electric. Wound-tight with everything unsaid.
I could feel his breath on my cheek now. Could see the smudge of soot near his temple. His lashes were absurd. So was his heartbeat—loud enough I could almost count the skips.
"Pecola," he murmured.
And my name—my name—sounded like the last line of a prophecy he didn't want to end.
I didn't speak.
I didn't trust my mouth.
Antic leaned in.
Just slightly.
A few centimeters more, and he would've crossed the threshold. Would've broken the quiet, would've chosen the moment instead of waiting to be given it.
And I—
I almost let him.
But something in my chest seized.
Not fear.
Not quite.
But remembrance.
That I was still building myself.
That even this—especially this—had to be mine to call.
So I leaned in too.
Close enough our foreheads brushed.
And I whispered:
"Not yet."
His eyes fluttered shut.
For a moment, he just… nodded. Silent. Understanding in the way only Antic could—without letting the pain show.
He didn't pull away.
Neither did I.
We just stayed there, breath against breath, like two halves of a question with no rush for the answer.
Dolly cleared her throat somewhere in the background.
"Gods, if you two don't do it soon, I will light something on fire just to speed things along."
I smiled against his cheek.
Antic sighed, theatrical again. "One day," he muttered, "I'll get a moment with you that doesn't involve third-party commentary."
"One day," I echoed.
But not tonight.
Tonight was for almosts.
_________
The sun rose like it was ashamed of itself—half-hidden behind mist, casting the village in a gold too soft to trust.
Nothing about this morning felt real.
The square, once wild with color and wine, was quiet now. Petals drifted along the ground like forgotten confetti. Stalls stood empty, their silks fluttering like ghosts. Somewhere, a child laughed. But it sounded far away. Like it belonged to another Breath.
Antic walked beside me, unusually quiet.
He hadn't brought his lute.
That, more than anything, made the silence feel sharp.
"You don't want to play?" I asked, my voice rough with sleep and nerves.
He shook his head. "Not today. The strings are all off."
I knew he didn't mean the instrument.
We passed under a vine-covered arch, the same one we'd stepped through days ago. It felt different now. Like it had seen too much.
"I had a dream," I said.
Antic raised an eyebrow.
"You were crying," I added. "But your nose was bleeding, so it was hard to tell."
That earned me a grin. Soft. Tired. "Sounds on brand."
"Grin was there too. He was drawing sigils in a puddle."
"Was I at least shirtless?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
His smirk deepened. "You dream about me shirtless."
"I dream about chaos. You just happen to be there."
He chuckled, then fell quiet again. His hand brushed mine once, twice—but didn't take it.
Around us, villagers began to emerge. Cloaked. Cautious. The kind of quiet that comes when even celebration feels suspicious. The council would reconvene soon. Elara had said dusk would be the climax.
And we all knew what that meant.
Someone wouldn't survive it.
Ahead, the Council Hall loomed again—rounded stone and shimmering glyphs.
Dolly was already waiting by the steps, parasol shut this time. Her lips were painted crimson. Her smile wasn't.
Grin stood beside her, hood up, fingers twitching like he was already casting silent protection into the stones beneath our feet.
"You feel it?" he murmured as we approached.
I nodded. "Something's off."
"The story's fighting back," Dolly said. "Doesn't like where this is going."
Antic sighed. "Bloody narrative consciousness."
No one laughed.
Pecola reached out, not for anyone—but for balance. The ground felt uneven. Or maybe it was just the future leaning too far forward.
She whispered, "It's today, isn't it?"
Grin answered, his voice slow and flat:
"…It always was.
The bell tolled once.
Not the hour—just a note. A long, low sound that sank into the bones of the village.
It meant: soon.
It meant: last chance.
We stood in the garden behind the council hall, just before the final hearing. The garden was overgrown—untamed jasmine, knotroot, shimmering deathvine—all curling up the old stones like time had spilled forward and never bothered to retreat.
Antic leaned against a crooked tree, arms crossed, boots muddy. He looked like trouble and heartbreak rolled into a single, smirking riddle.
"You're doing the thing again," he said.
"What thing."
"The stare. The 'I'm-about-to-be-the-main-character-of-a-tragedy' stare."
I didn't look away. "Maybe I am."
His jaw tensed. "Don't joke like that."
"I'm not," I said.
A pause.
Antic stepped forward—slow, deliberate, like he was afraid I'd vanish if he moved too fast.
"I keep thinkin'," he murmured, "what if we're wrong? What if Elara's playing us all? What if the whole root-bloody forest is lying?"
"That's a lot of what-ifs."
"Yeah, well," he exhaled, "I'm not good at certainty unless it's about music or you."
That stopped me.
He scratched the back of his neck, looking somewhere near my chin instead of my eyes. "I'm not good at saying things straight. But… No Eyes. If you—if something happens today—"
"It won't."
"If."
The silence between us thickened, sweetened. The garden held its breath.
I looked up at him—really looked. The boy with a song for every wound. Who made fun of everything so nothing could hurt too deep. Who played melodies like they were apologies. Who kissed me once under falling blossoms and didn't ask for more.
He looked back.
And this time… he stepped closer.
Close enough that our hands almost touched.
Close enough that the space between us felt alive.
My heart climbed into my throat.
Antic leaned in.
Slow.
Like a question.
Like an ache.
His breath was warm on my cheek. I didn't move. Couldn't.
"You're not running," he whispered.
"I'm trying not to."
"I want to kiss you," he said. "But not because it's dramatic. Not because it's the end."
"Then why?"
"Because I like you, No Eyes. Because you ruin me a little. And I want to remember what your mouth feels like before the world forgets our names."
He was close enough now that I could count every freckle. Every hesitation.
And I—
I leaned in too.
Almost.
Almost.
Then—
The bell tolled again.
Louder this time. Urgent. Hungry.
We both flinched.
The moment cracked.
Antic exhaled a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. "The universe has the worst timing."
I swallowed, still breathless. "Maybe it's saving us from ourselves."
"Maybe it's jealous."
We didn't kiss.
But gods, it almost felt like we did.
And that almost? That would haunt me more than anything.