Becausehisvoice has been coming to me more and more frequently.
Because I see him in dreams. Lurking in his shadows.
Because he could be useful in finding Arlet and Vann.
Because…both his magic and mine are entwined in this scroll. Old promises from young lovers. And I need to see if he is still alive.
“That is for me to know,” I say evenly. Then I stand, collecting the scroll, and head back to my home after they exchange goodbyes. My throat is tight as I cross the distance. I purposefully separated this record from one of the artifacts in my dwelling in the hopes that I would not obsess over that which I cannot change.
When I enter my home, the air feels electric. In one of the spare rooms on the first floor, I retrieve the chest of pale stone bound in old sigils and seals of wax buried under woven silks and blankets. I’d sealed it shortly after arriving here, promising to let him come for it if he wanted.
It is just another reminder he never came back.
Using one of the jeweled ends of the scroll case, I lock it into the mechanism, and I press my hand to the sigil. The magical wax softens. The lid loosens with a sigh.
Inside lies a single blade, wrapped in faded blue silk. When I draw it free, the air grows colder. The dagger’s edge, black as obsidian, glints faintly in the candlelight.
“Hello, old ghost,” I whisper. Something lodges itself in my throat as I wait, feeling oddly fragile.
It hums. Barely audible, but there.
I used to tell myself the weapon was only metal and stone, not a heartbeat. But it was his, once. And if it is still making sound, it means that the Shadow lives on.
Castien.
Fifty years since I’ve last seen him, and still the name is a wound I can reopen with one thought.
He was the kind of man the gods made by mistake—a creature meant to love the light but born into darkness. Assassin, spy, heretic. He could pass through walls, slip past sentries, and cut throats without sound. He killed masses with his burning shadows. And once, he held my heart in his hands like something fragile and precious.
Long ago, in another life, when the world was far different, he’d agreed to help me in exchange for my magic. He’d given me a few precious years with my parents after he rescued them from a prisoner camp within elven borders. My mother passed first, just two years after returning to me. My father followed soon after, but Castien remained at my side all the way until just before the eruption that devastated our peoples.
And then he left the way only he could—without doors opening, without goodbyes. Gone between one heartbeat and the next. There were years I told myself he was dead. I even prayed for it sometimes so I could stop wondering.
We’d been lovers, not mates, as that was not something that elf and Enduar could be.
I stare at the blade until my reflection warps. My face looks older, tired. But behind it—behind the curve of my cheek, in the slant of the obsidian—I can almost swear I see another face. His.
“You left me, and in anger, I asked you to stay away,” I murmur. “I know you heard me. Why can’t you ever obey?”
I set the blade down, but I don’t close the chest yet.
Once, he and I carved a matching circle—half in my home in the old Enduar capital of Iravida, half in his hidden dwelling in thewoods. A reckless link, anchored by equal parts blood and hubris. When he walked into the shadows, I felt the echo of his heartbeat through the stone. When I prayed, he claimed to hear my voice through the dark.
We were young enough to think it was love everlasting. Old enough to know it was dangerous.
Now, staring at the knife, I wonder if that old link still exists. If I were to redraw a symbol, would he return to me?
It would take nothing—just a drop of blood, a whisper, a name.
Castien.
I don’t say it aloud. I don’t have to. The thought alone is enough to make my heart pound. The air thickens, candlelight bending. I feel him for the briefest moment—like the press of a hand against glass, like someone standing just behind me.
Alive. Now you’ve cursed me to know that you are still alive.
And then, nothing.
The silence that follows is too deep. I rise, rewrap the dagger, and seal the chest again. The wax reforms beneath my hand, hiding the tremor in my fingers. This time, instead of returning the scroll to the Ardorflame, I place it on one of the shelves and leave.