The hall where the council met was cold.
Stone pillars lined the edges, old enough to remember the first wars. The ceiling bore a spiral carved into the darkwood—a symbol of eternity, or of repetition.
Lyra sat near Auren, a thick shawl draped around her shoulders. Her skin was pale. Her eyes refused to blink.
She had no memory of the hours she was missing.
Lyra touched her temple unconsciously.
A cold emptiness pulsed behind her eyes—like a page had been torn from her mind, cleanly and without blood.
But Kael did.
And that silence said everything.
The elders argued like wolves with dulled teeth.
Some demanded exile. Others called for patience. But the air was already poisoned.
"His power is unnatural," muttered Elder Ryl. "No one should be able to do what he did in that battle."
"He's dangerous," spat another. "What if the shadow speaks the truth?"
Then Elder Saen, silent until now, finally spoke.
His voice shook.
"I saw one like him once. During the War of Thorns. Burned a village with a glance. His eyes were the same."
A pause. A breath that caught.
"My daughter was in that village."
Silence swallowed the room.
Auren's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Then Daran stood. "We cannot pretend we didn't hear it. The darkness called him Master. Either Kael has forgotten who he is… or he hasn't."
Kael didn't speak once during the meeting.
He stood near the doorway like a statue. Even when they spoke of him like a weapon, like a curse given breath—he only listened.
But something behind his eyes… cracked.
That night, Kael didn't return to his room.
He stood outside, wind clawing at his coat, breath white against the dark.
He looked at his hands.
They weren't stained. Not today.
But something beneath the skin trembled.
What if it's true?
What if I'm not the one protecting them—
What if I'm the thing they need protection from?
The hill returned to his memory again.
The fire. The kneeling masses.
His smile.
He pressed his palm to his chest.
No heartbeat.
No warmth.
Just ache.
Lyra found him in the garden at dawn.
She didn't say his name. She didn't ask questions.
She simply stood beside him in the cold.
He finally spoke, voice low. "I think I was someone else once."
She turned to him.
"I think… I did terrible things."
Silence. Then, he added:
"I don't remember them. But my bones do. My dreams do. And the darkness… it knew me before I knew myself."
She reached down and traced a spiral in the frost-covered stone.
One line. One loop. No end.
He stared at it like it was a memory calling his name.
"And yet," she said softly, "you saved me. Again and again."
His throat worked.
"I don't know if that was redemption… or instinct."
She took his hand, slowly. His fingers trembled in hers.
"Even if you were once darkness," she whispered, "you are light now."
He looked at her—like she was a language he once spoke fluently, but had forgotten.
Then, in a voice like breaking glass:
"Why does it still feel like I'll lose you again?"
Lyra didn't answer.
Because deep inside… she felt it too.
In the shadows beyond the garden, someone watched.
A figure cloaked in silk, a sigil burned into their palm.
They smiled.
"The more he remembers, the more it cracks him."
"And when he breaks… he'll belong to us again."