But I see something flicker in him again—disapproval, maybe. Not of me. Of the world I came from. And maybe that’s fair. We drift again. Not in silence, exactly. But into that soft hum of shared presence. The kind that happens when you stop measuring time and just are in the space with someone.
“I don’t like fear,” I say eventually. Caziel looks up. “It turns people into things they don’t want to be. Controlling. Small.” He nods once, slow.
“Fear teaches the wrong lessons,” he murmurs. “It rewards submission. It encourages strength without compassion.”
“Exactly.” I lean my chin on my knee. “I thought I was weak for feeling too much after losing my parents. Turns out the opposite is worse.”
He stares at me for a long time. Like I’m a riddle he wasn’t expecting and maybe doesn’t want to solve.
“You’re not weak,” he says.
The way he says it makes my stomach flip. It’s a truth I’ve never heard out loud. I swallow, gaze flicking to the book in his hands.
“You always read this much?”
“When I was younger. Not as much now. Most of the records I need are restricted since I took myself out of contention for the Rite.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“I’ve learned to find other ways.”
Something about the way he says it makes my heart knock against my ribs. There’s a quiet fire under everything he does. A resistance wrapped in reason. And now I’m starting to see it. Not just what he is. But who.
“You and I,” I say slowly, “are very different.”
“Yes.”
“But… not entirely.”
“No.”
We look at each other. And for once, neither of us looks away. The moment stretches between us. Too long to be accidental and not quite long enough for anything to happen. And still, it vibrates in the air like static—like heat rising off coals just waiting for a breath of wind to make it burn.
I don’t move at first. Neither does he. Then I shift my weight slightly, and my hand grazes his on the floor between us. Just the back of his fingers. A brush of skin. I mean to pull away. I don’t. His fingers twitch. And then he turns his palm upward. Not inviting. Not demanding. Just open. Waiting.
The air leaves my lungs. I place my hand in his.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Like setting down a match.
His fingers curl around mine. Slow. Certain. Warm. His hand is strong. Callused from long hours with a blade. Too big to feel as gentle as it does. We don’t speak. We just sit there, barely touching, and yet it feels like we’ve shifted something tectonic. Something neither of us can unmove again.
I glance up at him and he’s already looking at me. The flicker, the break in the glamor, is back again. His face sharpens, ever so slightly. His eyes catch the firelight too brightly, too ancient to be mortal. But there’s no fear in me. Only awe.
The moment tips forward, a car parked on the edge of a cliff, and that’s when he pulls away. It’s neither violent nor abrupt, just a clean withdrawal. A flick of his fingers. A recalibration of posture. Suddenly the air is cooler. The space between us wider. He clears his throat, but doesn’t look at me.
“I shouldn’t have…” His jaw works, the words catching on the way out. “I apologize.”
I blink. “For…?”
He still won’t meet my gaze.
“That was… inappropriate.”
My stomach twists. Not in shame. Not even in rejection. I’m confused because nothing about that moment felt inappropriate. It feltright. Like something that had been building between us since the very beginning. Since the silence. Since the sword. Since the way he looked at me like I was real when no one else would. I take a slow breath.
