The silence after Cael's words stretched long, weighted with a meaning Illyen could not grasp. The leaf that had fallen upon the fountain's surface drifted slowly toward the edge, circling, as though caught in a current too faint to see. Illyen's breath matched its rhythm—uneven, restless, refusing to steady.
He should have spoken. He should have broken the quiet with some sharp retort, something to place a wall back between them. But the words that came to him dissolved before they reached his lips.
"Cael," Illyen said at last, low, almost unsteady. "Why do you speak as though you know me? Truly know me?"
Cael's gaze did not falter. Moonlight caught in his blue eyes, turning them brighter, sharper, as if they held something far older than his sixteen years. "Because I do."
Illyen's chest tightened. He shook his head quickly, as though to cast the words aside. "You don't. You can't. All you see is a boy you think beneath you."
A faint curve touched Cael's mouth—not mockery, but something quieter, as though he were holding back words that could not yet be spoken. "Is that truly what you believe?" he asked softly.
Illyen bristled. His pride pushed him to lift his chin. "It's what you've shown me. Always."
For a fleeting moment, shadows passed across Cael's face, softening his expression into something almost sorrowful. "Not always," he murmured. "You just don't remember."
The words struck too close, stirring a chill through Illyen's skin. He looked away quickly, down to the fountain where their reflections still swayed side by side, torn apart and reformed with every ripple. The sight unsettled him more than Cael's gaze ever could.
"Remember what?" Illyen forced the question out, his voice sharper than he intended.
But Cael only stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until Illyen felt the nearness of him like a heat in the cool night air. "That some bonds are older than names," he said. "Older than pride. Older than crowns."
Illyen's heart stumbled. A shiver raced through him, though he stood his ground. He wanted to demand answers, to tear the meaning from Cael's words, but fear coiled in his chest. Fear of what the answers might cost.
"You speak nonsense," Illyen whispered, though his voice trembled.
"Perhaps," Cael said, his lips curving faintly. But his eyes remained steady, unwavering. "But one day, Illyen, you'll understand. And when you do…" His voice trailed off, leaving the promise unfinished, suspended in the charged air between them.
The garden held its breath. Somewhere beyond the walls, the call of a night bird echoed, thin and fleeting, breaking the silence. Illyen's hands clenched at his sides. Pride screamed at him to leave, to turn away before Cael's words could take root.
And so he did.
He stepped back sharply, his boots striking against the stone path. His voice, when it came, was strained but defiant. "I don't need your riddles, Cael. Or your lessons."
Cael did not follow. He only stood there, still as the fountain, his gaze lingering as Illyen turned and strode away beneath the shadowed trees.
Yet as Illyen moved farther from the garden, the weight in his chest did not lift. The thread between them remained, invisible and unyielding, pulling taut with every step.
And though he told himself he was free of it, he knew the truth.
He was not.
Not yet.