Morning did not arrive all at once.
It crept in through the palace windows in pale layers—first a thin wash of blue, then the hush of silver fading into gold. The moon withdrew quietly, as if unwilling to disturb what it had witnessed through the night.
Illyen woke to warmth.
Not the heat of fire or sun, but something steadier—human, grounding. A presence beside him that did not ask to be noticed, yet refused to be ignored.
Cael was still there.
He sat against the headboard, one knee drawn up, the other foot resting on the marble floor. He had not slept. Illyen knew this without opening his eyes. Cael's wakefulness had a distinct quality to it—a vigilant stillness, as though sleep were a luxury he no longer trusted.
Illyen shifted slightly.
Immediately, Cael looked down.
"You're awake," he said softly, voice roughened by hours of silence.
Illyen opened his eyes. Sunlight traced the edge of Cael's profile, catching in his hair, softening the sharp planes of his face. For a fleeting moment, the crown prince looked younger. Almost fragile.
"I dreamed," Illyen said.
Cael did not interrupt. He had learned—over lifetimes—that some things needed space to surface.
"It wasn't clear," Illyen continued. "More like… feelings wearing the shape of memory." He frowned faintly. "There was a garden. Not this one. Smaller. Wilder."
Cael's breath stilled.
"The eastern terrace," he murmured. "Before the walls were reinforced. You used to say the roses there refused to be tamed."
Illyen blinked. "I did?"
"You said they were braver that way."
A quiet laugh escaped Illyen before he could stop it. The sound surprised him—felt older than this life, like something returning home after a long exile.
"I think I remember saying that," he said slowly. "Or… I remember believing it."
Cael's fingers tightened against the fabric of the blanket.
"That's how it happens," he said. "The belief comes first."
Silence settled between them—not empty, but full. It carried the weight of shared breath, of a dawn that felt less like a beginning and more like a continuation.
Illyen pushed himself upright, the blanket sliding down. He was aware, suddenly, of how close they were. How natural it felt.
"Cael," he said.
"Yes?"
"Why now?"
Cael's gaze lifted, searching Illyen's face as though the answer might be written there.
"The Veil weakens when the soul is ready," he said carefully. "Or when it can no longer endure forgetting."
Illyen considered that.
"I don't feel like I'm breaking," he said. "I thought remembering would feel like tearing open a wound. But instead…" He pressed a hand to his chest. "It feels like something locked inside me is finally being allowed to breathe."
Cael closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"That's new," he admitted.
Illyen frowned. "New?"
"In the past," Cael said, voice low, "your memories returned like a flood. Too much. Too fast. You carried centuries of grief in a single heartbeat." He opened his eyes again, gaze shining. "This time… it's gentler."
Illyen reached for Cael's hand.
"Maybe," he said, "because I'm not alone this time."
Cael inhaled sharply, as though the words had struck something deep and fragile.
"You've always been alone," Illyen continued, more firmly now. "Every time I forgot, you stayed. You waited. You endured." His thumb brushed against Cael's knuckles. "This life—I don't want it to be like that."
Cael's voice wavered. "Illyen—"
"I don't need to remember everything at once," Illyen said. "But I need to choose you now. As I am."
The sun rose higher, spilling gold across the room, as if the world itself were leaning closer to listen.
Cael bowed his head, resting his forehead briefly against Illyen's hand.
"I have waited lifetimes to hear that," he whispered.
⸻
They walked the palace gardens later that morning.
The servants watched in careful silence as the Duke of Arvendel and the Crown Prince passed through the corridors side by side, their steps unhurried, their closeness unmistakable. Rumors stirred like birds in the rafters—but none dared take flight just yet.
The garden gates opened with a soft creak.
Illyen paused at the threshold.
"This place feels different," he said.
Cael followed his gaze. "It's changed. You'll notice that more now."
"No," Illyen said slowly. "I mean… it feels like it's been waiting."
They walked along the gravel path, dew clinging to the hems of their clothes. The roses were in bloom—deep reds, pale whites, soft pinks trembling in the breeze.
Illyen stopped before a gnarled rosebush near the old fountain.
"I know this one," he said suddenly.
Cael's heart skipped.
"You named it," he said quietly. "You said it bloomed too early and too fiercely."
Illyen reached out, fingers hovering just above a petal.
"I remember the thought," he whispered. "Not the moment. Just… the feeling of standing here and thinking the world was cruel to things that loved too brightly."
His hand trembled.
Cael stepped closer, placing his own hand over Illyen's—not to guide, not to restrain. Only to be there.
"You were right," Cael said. "The world is cruel. But you never stopped loving it anyway."
Illyen turned to him. "And you never stopped loving me."
It wasn't a question.
"No," Cael said. "I never did."
Something in Illyen's chest shifted again—deeper this time. A door opening onto a long, quiet corridor of memory.
He saw a boy standing too straight, wearing a crown too heavy for his head.
He saw himself—smaller, fiercer, standing in defiance.
He heard a promise spoken not in words, but in action.
I will stay.
Illyen staggered.
Cael caught him instantly, arms firm, grounding.
"I've got you," Cael said. "I'm here."
Illyen clutched at him, breath shaking. The memory did not overwhelm him—it settled, like a truth finally acknowledged.
"I remember the promise," Illyen whispered. "Not the words. Just… the certainty."
Cael pressed his forehead to Illyen's hair.
"That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
⸻
They sat by the fountain until the sun stood high.
No more visions came. Only quiet understanding.
When Illyen finally spoke again, his voice was steady.
"When the Veil falls," he said, "I'll remember everything."
Cael nodded. "Yes."
"And it will hurt," Illyen added.
"Yes," Cael agreed softly.
Illyen turned to him, eyes clear. "But I won't face it the way I did before."
Cael met his gaze, something fierce and tender burning there.
"No," he said. "You won't."
They did not kiss.
They did not need to.
The thread between them—ancient, luminous—tightened gently, not as a chain, but as a promise renewed by choice.
Above them, the roses swayed.
And for the first time in centuries, memory did not arrive as a storm.
It came like breath.