The night was quiet—eerily so. No rustling leaves, no calls of nocturnal creatures. Just the gentle crackle of the campfire at the center of a clearing, tucked against the cliff's edge. Stars above sparkled across the heavens like they had something to say but no voice to speak. Two moons lit the night sky, one a pale shade of blue, the other a muted crimson — twins watching silently from afar.
Lucien sat cross-legged on a woven blanket near the fire, arms wrapped around himself as if to keep out more than just the cold. The heat from the flames touched his skin but not his soul. He was still trying to understand why.
Across from him sat Aeris Virell, her silver hair glowing faintly in the firelight. Her eyes, cool and unreadable by day, were softer now, reflecting the flames like glacial lakes catching a sunrise. She wasn't speaking, and neither was he. But it wasn't an uncomfortable silence—it was the kind of silence that said I see you without needing to ask why you're broken.
The silence stretched.
Lucien shifted slightly, his eyes darting to the guards at the edge of the camp. Ten of them, stationed in pairs. They weren't chatty types. All wore long, dark cloaks with the insignia of the Virell noble house—an ice blossom etched into a silver crest.
One of them, a taller woman with a faint scar across her cheek, met his gaze briefly. Lucien quickly looked away.
"You keep doing that," Aeris spoke up, not looking at him.
"Doing what?"
"Looking around like you're ready to bolt."
Lucien gave a weak smile. "Old habits die hard."
"Hmm." She turned her gaze back to the fire. "Do you always expect people to hurt you?"
He paused. Then: "…Yes."
The response hung in the air between them. Aeris didn't respond immediately. Instead, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a small wooden box. She opened it and took out two skewers of roasted root vegetables and soft charred meat.
"You didn't eat much at the outpost," she said, handing one to him.
He stared at it suspiciously. "…What is it?"
"Fari root and sky-pheasant. Don't worry, it's not poisoned. If it was, you'd already be dead."
Lucien snorted despite himself and took the skewer. He bit into it. The meat was tender and smoky, and the fari root had a sweetness that lingered. Warmth spread through his body. Not just from the food. From the gesture.
"Thanks," he said, quieter than he meant to.
She just nodded, chewing her own food. After a moment, she spoke again.
"Do you want to tell me where you're from yet?"
Lucien stiffened. "I… don't know how to explain it."
"Try."
He looked down at the skewer, now half-eaten. "Somewhere far away. A place where people… don't have magic. Where music is all I ever had."
She glanced at him sideways. "Music?"
Lucien didn't reply at first. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the flute she'd seen earlier—the one they found clutched in his hands after the wolf attack. He ran his fingers over the worn wood, the faded engravings.
"I used to play," he said. "Back then… it was the only time I felt real. When I played, I wasn't the boy people hated. I was just… me."
She didn't mock him. Didn't scoff. Instead, she said, "Play something."
He blinked. "Now?"
She nodded. "Music shouldn't be caged. Let it breathe."
Lucien hesitated, then slowly brought the flute to his lips. The melody was slow, unsure at first, then began to flow. It was a song his grandfather used to hum—simple, soft, almost like a lullaby. The notes curled into the air and danced among the stars.
Even the guards turned their heads slightly, listening.
When he finished, Aeris's expression had changed. There was something… mournful in her eyes.
"That was beautiful," she whispered. "Like snow falling on a quiet field."
Lucien flushed slightly and looked down. "Thanks."
"You really love it," she said, voice low. "Even now. Even after… whatever it is you've been through."
He didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Aeris stared at the fire. "Do you know why I use ice magic?"
Lucien glanced at her, surprised by the sudden turn.
"Because… you're good at it?"
She gave a dry laugh. "No. I was forced to. My bloodline is known for it. My family believes that only emotionless strength deserves power. So I was raised to be… cold."
She closed her eyes. "But sometimes, I dream of fire."
Lucien looked at her more closely. Her jaw was tight. Her hands were clenched.
"I hate the cold," she admitted. "Even if I was born into it."
He watched her quietly. Her voice had that slight shake in it—like a dam about to crack.
"I ran away once," she continued. "Took a ship. Flew to a tiny floating island no bigger than a barn. Just to sit under the sun without freezing."
"What happened?" Lucien asked gently.
"They found me. Dragged me back. Locked me in an ice chamber until I 'remembered who I was.'"
Lucien felt his chest clench. "That's…"
She looked at him. "You know pain, don't you?"
Lucien lowered his gaze. "Too well."
They sat like that for a long while. The fire burned lower, but neither moved. Neither wanted the moment to end.
Then, from the shadows, the female guard from before stepped closer.
"My lady," she said respectfully. "The wind is shifting. Might be snow by dawn."
Aeris nodded. "Thank you, Ceryn."
The guard gave Lucien a once-over, then said quietly, "He's the first outsider you've spoken to like this."
Aeris didn't look at her. "Maybe he's not just an outsider."
Ceryn gave Lucien a small, knowing nod before disappearing back into the darkness.
Lucien looked at Aeris, confused. "She doesn't trust me, does she?"
"She's protective," Aeris said. "But she'll come around. You've already done what most people can't."
"What's that?"
"Made me speak like a person."
Lucien chuckled softly.
As the wind grew colder, Aeris stood and walked to her tent. Then paused. "Lucien."
He turned toward her.
She pulled a small crystal from around her neck. It shimmered with frost and faint blue light. She placed it in his hand.
"A memory crystal," she said. "It shows a moment stored inside. I've never shared one before."
He held it carefully. "Why give it to me?"
"Because I want you to remember this night. The fire. The food. The fact that you weren't alone."
She stepped away, her voice soft. "We both needed this more than we knew."
Lucien sat there, staring into the crystal as her footsteps faded.
And for the first time in his life—even his past one—he thought maybe someone understood him. Not out of pity. Not out of duty. But because they, too, were tired of the cold.