The palace did not change all at once.
That, Illyen noticed first.
He had expected something—an omen, perhaps. A shudder through the halls, a crack in the sky, the whisper of the Veil recoiling in protest. But the palace remained what it had always been: marble warmed by sun, banners stirred by passing air, corridors echoing softly with footsteps and restraint.
And yet.
Everything felt altered.
Not broken. Not rewritten.
Observed.
As though the walls themselves had drawn a careful breath and decided to pay attention.
Illyen walked beside Cael through the inner halls, their shoulders almost touching. Not quite. Never quite. The space between them felt intentional, like the pause between notes in a familiar melody—necessary, meaningful.
Servants bowed as they passed.
Some looked away too quickly. Others lingered, eyes flickering with curiosity they did not dare voice. A few—older ones, those who had served longer than memory—watched with something close to reverence.
Illyen felt it, that gaze.
Not judgment.
Recognition.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured.
Cael nodded without looking at him. "They always know before they understand."
Illyen glanced sideways. "Always?"
A corner of Cael's mouth curved, faint and rueful. "History leaves impressions. Even when names are erased."
They turned a corner—and nearly collided with Emily.
She stopped short, hands clutched at the front of her dress, eyes wide.
Then she smiled.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't polite.
It was bright, immediate, and deeply, profoundly relieved.
"So," she said, voice trembling just slightly. "You're walking together now."
Cael sighed. "Emily—"
She crossed the remaining distance and pulled him into an embrace before he could finish. Cael froze for a heartbeat, then exhaled and returned it, resting his chin briefly atop her head.
"You didn't sleep," she accused gently.
He didn't deny it.
Emily turned her gaze to Illyen, studying him with a frankness that might have unsettled anyone else. Her eyes softened.
"You look different," she said.
Illyen considered that. "I feel… present."
She nodded, as though that explained everything.
"Good," she said simply. Then, quieter, "You deserve that."
Footsteps approached behind them—measured, deliberate.
Elara emerged from the shadowed corridor, her robes whispering softly against the stone. She stopped several paces away, hands folded, gaze sharp and searching.
Her eyes met Illyen's.
And held.
"The thread has shifted," she said.
Not a question.
Illyen inclined his head. "It has."
Elara's gaze flicked to Cael, then back again. "But it has not snapped."
"No," Cael said. "It hasn't."
Something unreadable passed across Elara's face—relief, perhaps, tinged with apprehension.
"This is unprecedented," she said quietly. "Memory returning without collapse. Without fracture."
Illyen smiled faintly. "Then maybe the past is finally learning restraint."
Emily blinked. "Is this the part where someone explains what's happening?"
Elara exhaled. "Later," she said. "Some truths should not be rushed."
They moved together—to the solar overlooking the eastern gardens, where light poured in through tall arched windows and the air smelled faintly of blooming stoneflowers.
Illyen stood at the center of the room, hands loosely clasped, feeling the echo of what had almost come to him earlier.
The corridor of memory.
Still open. Still waiting.
"Does it frighten you?" Emily asked softly, standing beside him now.
Illyen thought of fire and grief and endings that had once been unavoidable.
"No," he said. "It humbles me."
Elara's brow furrowed. "That is not the answer of someone about to remember centuries of loss."
"It is the answer of someone who has already lived them," Illyen replied gently. "Even without knowing."
Silence fell.
Cael watched him with an intensity that had not faded since dawn. If anything, it had sharpened—no longer the vigilance of waiting, but the steadiness of someone choosing to stand in the open.
"The Veil will fall," Elara said at last. "Sooner than it would have otherwise."
Cael stiffened slightly.
Illyen reached for his hand—not urgently. Just enough.
"And when it does," Illyen said, "I will remember everything."
"Yes," Elara agreed.
Emily swallowed. "And… after?"
Illyen turned to her, eyes calm. "After, I will still be myself."
She searched his face, then smiled again, smaller this time. "That's all I needed to hear."
Elara studied the two of them—Illyen and Cael—standing side by side, hands joined now without hesitation.
"You have changed the shape of fate," she said softly. "Not by defying it. But by choosing within it."
Cael's grip tightened, just slightly.
"That was always the point," he said.
Later—much later—when the sun had begun its slow descent and the palace grew quieter, Illyen stood alone on the eastern terrace.
The old one.
The wild one.
The roses there bent toward the light, untamed as ever.
He placed a hand over his chest and breathed.
Not deeply.
Not desperately.
Just… fully.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"You didn't follow," Cael said.
Illyen smiled without turning. "I knew you would."
Cael came to stand beside him, close enough that their sleeves brushed.
"For the first time," Cael said, "I'm not afraid of what you'll remember."
Illyen met his gaze. "Because you're not carrying it alone anymore."
"No," Cael said. "Because you chose me before remembering."
The wind stirred the roses.
Somewhere deep within Illyen, the corridor of memory waited—patient, luminous, unafraid.
Soon, it would open fully.
But for now—
This.
This was enough.
They stood together as the light softened, the world continuing quietly around them.
And for the first time across lifetimes, the future did not feel like a reckoning.
It felt like something they would walk into—
Side by side.