The morning air lingered cool in the gardens, though the sun had already begun its climb, gilding every surface it touched. Illyen walked with measured steps, his composure stitched together with threads of restraint. Yet beneath that outward stillness, unease continued to coil. The visions, the fragments of memory—they pressed like whispers against his ribs, refusing to quiet.
At his side, Cael moved in silence. His presence was steady, his stride graceful, as though every step belonged to the earth beneath him. Illyen tried not to notice, tried not to be drawn into the subtle weight of the crown prince's nearness. But it was impossible to ignore. The air itself seemed altered when Cael walked beside him—charged, restless, carrying something unspoken.
They reached a fountain at the garden's heart, its waters glittering under the sun. Illyen paused, his gaze drifting to the marble edge, where ivy curled like painted strokes. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself.
"You are distracted," Cael said quietly, not a question but an observation. His voice was even, but Illyen caught the faintest trace of insistence beneath it.
"I am fine," Illyen replied, the words practiced, almost mechanical. He touched the cool stone of the fountain, grounding himself in its solidity.
"Fine," Cael repeated, as though testing the weight of the word. He stepped closer, the faint brush of his shadow falling across Illyen. "Yet your eyes betray you."
Illyen stiffened. He did not look at him. If he did, he feared too much would spill—truths he could not explain, feelings he could not justify. The ribbon, the boy beneath the oak, the crest fractured in silence—it all lived too vividly within him, yet made no sense at all.
He forced a faint smile instead. "You see too much."
Cael's gaze lingered, heavy as the morning sun. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you hide too much."
Illyen's breath faltered. For a heartbeat, he felt as though Cael's words pressed against the fragile barrier of his thoughts, close enough to crack it open. Yet the barrier held. He looked away, focusing on the gentle ripple of the fountain.
The silence between them stretched, taut but not breaking. Birds sang in the distance, and a soft breeze stirred the leaves, carrying the faint scent of jasmine once more.
Cael moved then, lowering himself to sit on the marble edge of the fountain. His composure remained impeccable, but his eyes, lifted toward Illyen, carried a question that words could not frame. "Tell me," he said at last, his voice soft but edged with command, "what keeps you from sleep?"
Illyen's lips parted, but hesitation caught the words before they formed. He could not tell him. How could he? That he saw fragments of a boy who felt achingly familiar? That an emblem in a book left his chest hollow with longing he could not name? It was too fragile, too unreal.
He shook his head slightly. "It is nothing. Dreams only."
"Dreams are not nothing," Cael said, his tone sharper now, though not unkind. His eyes, clear and unwavering, locked on Illyen's. "They carry what the waking mind refuses to hold."
The words struck deeper than Illyen wished to admit. His throat tightened. He looked away again, his reflection trembling in the fountain's surface. "Then perhaps my mind refuses for a reason."
Cael studied him, his silence heavy with meaning. For a fleeting instant, Illyen thought he saw something flicker in his expression—sorrow, longing, recognition too vast to be spoken aloud. But then it was gone, veiled beneath the calm poise of a crown prince.
"You fear what you do not understand," Cael said softly.
Illyen's chest ached at the truth in it. He turned sharply, stepping away from the fountain, as though distance might shield him. His voice came quieter than he intended. "And you speak as though you understand."
Cael did not move at once. He remained seated, gaze steady, the morning light casting pale fire in his hair. When he spoke again, the words were low, almost whispered. "Perhaps I do."
Illyen froze. The quiet certainty in his tone unsettled him more than any command could. He dared not turn, dared not meet those eyes again, for he feared what he might see there.
The garden seemed to hold its breath. The fountain murmured, the leaves rustled, but between them stretched a silence so charged it felt alive.
At last, Illyen forced his steps forward, though they felt heavy. "Then it is fortunate," he said, his voice steadied by sheer will, "that I need not rely on understanding to carry on."
Cael rose behind him, the sound of movement precise, deliberate. "Perhaps not," he answered, his tone unreadable. "But sooner or later, what is hidden will demand to be seen."
Illyen did not reply. His pulse quickened as he walked toward the shadowed archway at the edge of the garden. The warmth of the sun clung to his back, yet his chest felt cold, unsettled.
He told himself it was only dreams, only visions without meaning. But as Cael's words echoed behind him, and the weight of his gaze lingered like an invisible tether, Illyen knew he could not escape the truth forever. Something within him was stirring, a thread unraveling, drawing him toward a past he could not yet recall.
And though he tried to walk away, the garden seemed to close around him, binding him in silence and sunlight, where every step only tightened the thread that tethered him to Cael.