Morning clung to the village longer than Adriana wished.
Light spilled across Lunareth's stone paths, children's voices echoing faintly from distant houses, smoke rising from cooking fires. Life moved on—ordinary, unaware of the storm bound inside her chest.
Adriana stood near the doorway of her home, staring at the wooden water bucket placed beside the steps. Her body ached for rest, for cleanliness, for something as simple as washing the dust and sweat of yesterday away.
But she could not.
Not while he remained awake inside her.
She had tried earlier—lifting the bucket, stepping toward the washroom—but her arms had frozen mid-movement, her body refusing her command. A calm, firm voice inside her had stopped her without force.
Not yet. Daylight weakens the bond. You will collapse.
So she sat instead.
On the stone steps of her doorway, knees drawn close, hands resting loosely over them. The sun sat high above the hills, warm on her skin, cruel in its slowness.
She waited for sunset.
Inside her, silence lingered—quiet, observant. Not oppressive. Not gentle. Simply present.
"You really won't let me bathe," she muttered at last, breaking the stillness.
A pause.
Your body is already strained, the King replied. I will not allow further weakness.
Adriana huffed a tired laugh. "You speak as if this body belongs to you."
At the moment, he said calmly, it keeps us both alive.
She had no answer to that.
The village moved around her—neighbors passing, glancing curiously but saying nothing after last night's strange incident. Adriana kept her head lowered, pretending to be nothing more than a grieving sister too tired to stand.
Hours passed.
Finally, the sun began its descent.
Golden light softened into amber. Shadows stretched across the ground. The air cooled. And slowly—subtly—Adriana felt the tightness in her chest ease. Breath came easier. Muscles loosened.
Night was returning.
Only then did she speak again.
"My brother's name was Elric," she said quietly.
The King did not respond immediately, but she felt his attention sharpen.
"He was younger than me. Always running ahead, always laughing." Her lips curved sadly. "He stepped in front of danger without thinking. And that night… he died because of me."
Her voice cracked, but she continued.
"I didn't perform the ritual for power. I did it because I couldn't accept that I never said goodbye. I wanted one last moment. One last voice. One last chance."
The wind brushed past her hair. Somewhere, a crow called.
Inside, the King remained silent—but not detached. Not dismissive.
Love makes mortals defy law, he said at last. I have seen wars begin for less.
Adriana turned her head slightly, staring at the sky.
"And you?" she asked. "Did you ever love anyone?"
A pause lingered longer this time.
Kings do not speak of such things, he replied.
She smiled faintly. "That sounds like a yes."
His presence shifted—subtle irritation, pride, old habit.
Emotion clouds judgment. It weakens rule. It invites betrayal.
"So you ruled alone," Adriana said softly. "And died alone."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
For a moment, the bond between them tightened—cold, sharp.
Then—
I did not die forgotten, he said. My kingdom stood because I commanded it.
"But it fell anyway," Adriana answered quietly, glancing toward the horizon where the ruined palace lay beyond sight.
Silence returned. But this time it was different.
Not empty.
Not hostile.
Two souls bound unwillingly, watching the same sunset from opposite sides of time.
As the sun finally slipped beneath the hills, Adriana felt the last restraint fade from her limbs. She rose slowly, testing her balance.
"I'm going to bathe now," she said.
The King did not stop her.
Night had come.
And for the first time since the ritual, Adriana felt her body was her own—if only until morning.
The sun finally surrendered to the horizon.
Its last light slipped away behind the hills, leaving Lunareth wrapped in soft twilight. The change was subtle but unmistakable. Adriana felt it first in her chest—the tightness loosening, the weight easing, as if an unseen hand had finally released its grip.
She inhaled deeply.
For the first time since morning, her breath felt fully her own.
You may go now, the King said quietly within her. The night will hold you.
She did not wait for the feeling to change again.
Adriana rose from the steps and stepped inside her house, her movements slow but certain. She filled the wooden basin with water, the sound of it splashing echoing gently in the small room. Steam rose faintly as she dipped her fingers in, warmth spreading across her skin.
As she bathed, the exhaustion of the day settled into her bones—but so did relief. Water ran over her shoulders, washing away dust, sweat, and something heavier she could not name. She closed her eyes, letting the silence surround her.
For a few moments, there was no palace, no ritual, no king.
Only her.
When she finished, she wrapped herself in clean cloth and stepped back into the main room, her hair still damp, the scent of soap lingering softly in the air.
That was when she saw him.
The King stood near the far wall, his presence solid now in the darkness, moving slowly through the house as if it were unfamiliar territory—because it was. His gaze lingered on everything: the wooden table worn smooth with use, the clay pots lined neatly on shelves, the oil lamp with its simple glass cover.
He lifted a small object from the table—a metal hook used to hang cooking tools. He turned it in his hand, studying it with quiet focus.
"This was not here before," he said.
Adriana leaned against the doorway, watching him. "Most things aren't," she replied gently. "A hundred years changes more than you think."
He moved to the window next, touching the frame lightly, peering out at the darkened street beyond. "Homes were built differently. Fewer walls. More stone."
"People build for safety now," she said. "Not for power."
That earned her a glance—sharp, assessing.
"Safety is a luxury of those who no longer expect war," he said.
She crossed the room slowly, her steps softer now that night supported her strength. "This house belonged to my parents' parents," she said. "It's been repaired many times. Broken things don't always stay broken."
His gaze softened—not visibly, but in the way his attention lingered.
He reached for the oil lamp and studied its flame. "Light without firewood," he murmured. "Controlled. Contained."
Adriana smiled faintly. "We learned new ways."
He set the lamp back carefully, as though it might shatter if mishandled. For a moment, he simply stood there, surrounded by a world that had continued without him.
"This place does not recognize me," he said at last.
"No," Adriana agreed. "But that doesn't mean it's hostile."
He turned toward her fully then, his expression unreadable. "And you?" he asked. "Do you recognize me?"
The question caught her off guard.
She hesitated, then answered honestly. "I'm still trying to understand you."
A pause settled between them—quiet, thoughtful.
Outside, night deepened. The village slept. Inside the small house, two lives—one living, one long dead—shared the same space, bound by mistake and memory.
The King looked around once more, taking in the humble room, the ordinary objects, the signs of a life lived quietly.
"This world has grown smaller," he said.
"Or maybe," Adriana replied softly, "it learned how to live without crowns."
He said nothing—but he did not disagree.
And in that silence, Adriana sensed something shift. Not surrender. Not acceptance.
But curiosity.
The night had returned her body to her.
And now, slowly, it was beginning to teach him what the world had become.