He entered with a quiet tread, bearing a tray of flatbread and tea, and something heavier tucked under his arm—a leather-bound text I’d loaned him months ago. He set it down on my desk, glanced at my half-smudged scroll, and said nothing at first.
“I thought you might need food,” he said at last. “And something to read that isn’t falling apart in your hands.”
I offered him a smile. It wavered.
“I’m not mourning,” I said.
Corin didn’t answer immediately. Just sat across from me, eyes searching mine.
“No?” he said. “Then why do you look like the sun forgot to rise?”
I looked down.
He didn’t press. Corin never did.
“I remember when my bond ended,” he went on, voice gentled. “It wasn’t like I expected. I woke up alone, just like you did, and it was still…there.”
That surprised me. He’d never spoken of his bond. Not in all our years.
“I found peace,” he added, softly. “Eventually. But I don’t think anyone ever truly prepares for the silence.”
I nodded. But I didn’t speak of Callis. Couldn’t.
The bond still stirred faintly beneath my skin, but I wrapped myself around it like it was a wound only I was allowed to touch. I didn’t want Corin to share it. Didn’t want him to understand.
Because if I gave this ache a name—if I spoke it aloud—I feared it might vanish altogether.
And it was all I had left of him.
Corin stood. Gave my shoulder a quiet squeeze. “You should walk,” he said. “The palace is too small for mourning.”
He left the room, door clicking softly behind him.
I sat in stillness. The light had shifted—full gold now, slanting in through the tall windows, gilding the rugs, the scrolls, the dust on the air.
It meant nothing.
Not without him in it.
I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving.
The palace faded behind me as I passed beneath the shaded porticoes, sandals forgotten, robes unbelted and open at the chest. I needed the air. The wind. Theache of my soles against stone to remind me I still lived.
The path narrowed beyond the temple wall, curling like a ribbon between terraces of wild thyme and fennel. Bees floated lazily between the blossoms. Insects hummed in the heat.
When I reached the orchard, the light had turned soft, dappled. Each leaf shimmered like stained glass, sun-bleached and trembling. The peaches were heavy on the boughs, some already fallen into the grass, bruised with their own ripeness.
I reached up and plucked one. I didn’t bite into it. Just held it, thumb brushing the fine fuzz as I passed beneath the trees where he once walked beside me. Where the scent of fruit had clung to his lips. Where I had seen him the first time, juice glistening on his chin—and I’d wanted him more than I’d ever wanted truth.
That memory hollowed me out.
I left the orchard behind.
Beyond it, the hills rose gently, golden and wide, wind rippling through the grasses like fingers through hair. The obelisk stood ahead, dark and tall, catching the low sun on its worn edges. It looked older than time. Older than gods.
Older than grief.
I climbed to its base and sat. The grass sighed beneath me, releasing the scent of earth. I leaned forward and ran my hand along the stone’s lower edge, fingers tracing the faded carvings that circled it like a prayer half-forgotten.
