The door closed softly behind her.
Darcien remained where he was, unmoving, long after the sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor. The room felt different now—too quiet, too aware of what had been said and what hadn't.
Immortality.
Marriage.
Not real.
He exhaled slowly and turned back to the table, resting his hands against its surface. Humans spoke of such things in fear, in legends meant to warn children. Maya spoke of them like curiosities. Like longings.
Unsettling.
Outside, the palace settled into its evening rhythm. Torches were lit. Servants moved quietly through the halls. Somewhere in the distance, bells marked the hour.
Maya, meanwhile, walked slowly back toward her chamber, her earlier brightness dimming as her thoughts caught up with her. The corridor lamps cast long shadows along the stone walls, and with every step, her mind replayed fragments of the conversation.
Why did he look like that?
Why did it feel like I said something wrong… without meaning to?
She stopped briefly, pressing a hand to her chest as a faint pressure bloomed there—familiar now, unsettling in its subtlety. Not a full vision. Just a brush of something old. A sense of time stretching too far. Of watching centuries pass like pages turning.
She shook her head, forcing the feeling away.
"Get it together," she muttered.
By the time she reached her room, the unease had dulled, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. She changed slowly, methodically, and lay down without remembering when she'd decided to sleep.
Sleep claimed her quickly.
Too quickly.
And somewhere else in the palace, Darcien finally moved, extinguishing the candles one by one. As he turned to leave, his thoughts circled back—against his will—to the strange human girl who spoke of monsters like lovers and legends like memories.
For reasons he couldn't name, he found himself hoping the night would pass quietly.
It did not.