There's a sensation that comes before memory.
A heat behind your ribs. A whisper lodged in your throat, not quite yours but insistent. A name you don't remember learning, clawing its way up through the cracks of sleep.
Kaelith didn't sleep.
Again.
She sat on the edge of her bed, spine taut, hands locked in her lap like they were bracing for an earthquake. The scar behind her ear still burned faintly beneath the skin.
It was subtle. Barely noticeable.
But she noticed now.
And she couldn't ignore it anymore.
He'd spoken of it like a memory. Not an accusation. Not a trick.
A fact.
"You weren't meant to remember," Saevus had said.
But her body was remembering without permission.
Her hands trembled as she fastened the last button of her coat. Her pulse skipped when she passed the window, catching a flash of her reflection.
It wasn't her face that unnerved her.
It was her eyes.
They looked older. Sharper. Like something else was looking out through them.
The mirror didn't lie.
But it didn't explain either.
She paused. Leaned closer.
The morning light caught something just behind her.
A shape in the glass that shouldn't be there.
For a second, she thought she saw someone standing in the hallway. A tall silhouette. Watching.
When she turned, it was gone.
Her fingers brushed behind her ear. The scar pulsed. Not with pain.
With warning.
The west wing was colder that morning.
Not the sterile chill of tile and steel—but the stillness before a storm. The kind of cold that slipped into your lungs and held you there, breathless, like it was waiting for something to crack.
Kaelith stood at the far end of the corridor, just outside the range of the cell's surveillance camera. Her ID badge hung loose around her neck, swinging slightly, caught in an invisible current she couldn't feel but deeply sensed.
She was staring at the reinforced door ahead like it might open on its own.
Like it might recognize her before she even reached it.
The hallway wasn't just quiet—it was reverent. The kind of hush reserved for sanctuaries. Or slaughterhouses.
Saint Nerezza wasn't a hospital.
Not here.
Not in this wing.
This was a cathedral built for monsters and gods.
And Saevus Caelum was both.
Mills was already stationed at Cell 77 when she approached. He looked exhausted. Jaw clenched, eyes jittery like caffeine had replaced sleep and still hadn't done the job.
"He didn't sleep," he muttered. "Again."
Kaelith raised a brow. "You watched him all night?"
Mills hesitated, then shook his head.
"I didn't have to," he said, voice low. "He just stood in the middle of the cell, eyes closed… like he was praying."
Kaelith's pulse flickered. "Praying to who?"
"Not to," Mills said. "For. He kept whispering your name. Over and over. Like he was waiting for you to answer."
She felt it then. That pressure behind her ears. Like sound trying to break in from the inside.
Kaelith held out her badge. "Open the door."
Mills didn't argue.
The lock disengaged.
And the steel groaned open.
He was standing exactly where she'd left him.
But something was different.
He didn't move when she stepped inside. Not right away. He stood at the far wall, posture relaxed but deliberate. Like he wasn't being confined by the room—he was defining it.
When he finally turned to face her, the motion was too smooth, too measured. Like he'd rehearsed the exact second he'd make her look at him.
"Kaelith," he said, his voice low, steady. "You came back."
She didn't sit.
Not yet.
She kept her distance, shoulders straight.
"I didn't come back for you," she said sharply. "I came back for clarity."
A small smile touched his mouth, but didn't reach his eyes.
"Still lying to yourself," he murmured.
Her jaw tensed. "I came back because I don't run from delusions."
"No," Saevus said, taking a step toward her. "You never did. Not even then."
"Then?" she echoed, voice tightening.
"You didn't run from the fire either," he said softly. "You walked through it. But you forgot how much it hurt."
An image punched its way into her mind.
Flames. Screaming. Splintering wood. Smoke filling her lungs. A hand—someone's hand—pulling her through the chaos.
She blinked it away.
"Yesterday," she said carefully. "You called me something."
"Ashema."
She shook her head. "Why does it sound like it belongs to someone else?"
Saevus tilted his head, his voice soft as dust.
"Because they renamed you. Rebuilt you. But you can't bury divinity, Kaelith. You can only sedate it."
She didn't respond. Her legs carried her forward before her mind caught up. She sat down without realizing it—like gravity shifted in the room and her body obeyed.
She hated that.
Hated the way she lost her edges around him.
She opened her folder—blank pages meant to act like armor.
"Tell me something only she would know."
Saevus crouched beside her—not like a patient. Like a supplicant. Or worse, a lover remembering a song only two people ever sang.
"You used to hide in a white house," he said, voice low. "One with no roof. You said the sky watched too closely. It made you feel too known."
Kaelith stilled.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"You shouldn't know that."
"You don't remember it," he said gently. "But your bones do."
She shot to her feet.
The chair screeched behind her, a harsh sound in the silence.
He didn't follow.
He didn't have to.
His words clung to her skin like heat that didn't leave.
"I'm not here for riddles," she snapped. "Or whatever game you think you're playing."
"This isn't a game," he said calmly. "It's a return."
She turned, hand reaching for the door.
But his voice followed her like a fingerprint pressed into the base of her spine.
"I didn't come here for forgiveness, Kaelith. I came to give back what was stolen."
She hesitated.
Didn't turn. Just breathed once—deep and sharp.
"What was stolen?" she asked.
A pause.
Then, with terrifying certainty, he said:
"Your divinity."
She walked out.
Because if she stayed, she might've believed him.
And that would be worse than remembering.