Myrelion was many things.
An assassin. A shadowwalker. A survivor of the gutters and blades.
But a man sitting on a wooden bench at twilight, handing a cup of spiced berry ice to a fox-eared girl?
That was new.
Lira smiled gently, tail swaying as she took the offered cup. They sat side by side in a quiet part of the Thaelorian capital, where the lanterns weren't too bright and the crowds had thinned to lovers and dreamers.
"…You didn't have to bring me all the way here," she said softly, her red eyes twinkling.
"You needed fresh air," Myrelion muttered, not meeting her gaze. "And I needed to learn more about you."
She blinked in surprise. "You… want to know about me?"
A nod.
Lira looked down at her hands, her smile dimming with something heavier. "…I was born in a farming village near the eastern marshes. No last name. My mother died giving birth. My father… drank too much. Hit harder than he worked. I ran away at twelve."
Myrelion's hand clenched slightly on the bench.
"I survived doing laundry in brothels, taverns… odd jobs. That's how I met him—Sorin. My husband." She smiled faintly, eyes misty. "He was kind. Poor. But kind. We didn't have much. But we had each other."
Myrelion looked at her then, his usual cold mask melting into something softer.
"And now?" he asked.
Lira's tail gently coiled around her side. "Now… I have you."
Their hands brushed on the bench. Neither pulled away.