The rain had quieted by morning, leaving the world washed pale — a veil of silver mist draped across the palace gardens. Dew clung to every leaf like glass beads, fragile and luminous. Somewhere, a bell chimed, its echo soft against the air, marking a dawn that felt both new and unbearably old.
Illyen sat by the window of his chamber, unmoving. His reflection shimmered faintly on the rain-flecked glass — the same face, yet not. Beneath his skin, something ancient stirred; fragments of forgotten warmth pressed against the edges of his waking mind.
The Hall of Echoes had not left him.
Every heartbeat since had carried its rhythm — that slow, deliberate thrum of something waiting to be remembered.
When he closed his eyes, he could almost see it again: the carvings, the golden threads, the way Cael's voice had trembled when he said "Mine was cursed to remember."
It wasn't just sorrow that lingered there; it was devotion so deep it almost frightened him.
A knock came at the door.
Illyen blinked, breaking free from the haze. "Come in."
It was Lady Selara, one of the palace historians — a quiet woman with silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold stories older than any written page. She bowed lightly, her layered robes whispering across the floor.
"Your Grace," she said softly, "His Highness requests your presence in the east garden."
Illyen hesitated. "The garden?"
"Yes," Selara replied, a faint smile playing on her lips. "He's been there since dawn." Her gaze flickered toward the window, then back to him. "The rain's stopped. It's… a good morning to remember."
There was something in her tone — not merely formality, but recognition. As though she, too, knew.
Illyen rose, the weight in his chest both heavy and compelling. He followed her through quiet corridors where sunlight tried to break through lingering mist. The palace seemed softer today, as if the walls themselves were listening.
When they reached the eastern garden, the scent of wet earth and blossoms filled the air. The trees were jeweled with rain, their branches bowing under the weight of water. And there, beneath the old white magnolia, stood Cael.
He wasn't in his usual royal attire — only a simple dark tunic, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair damp and loose around his face. He turned at the sound of Illyen's footsteps, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.
"You came."
Illyen tried to speak, but the words caught. Something about the garden tugged at him — the curve of the path, the tree, even the soft hum of the wind.
He had stood here before. He knew it with an ache too deep to name.
Cael seemed to sense it. "You remember this place, don't you?"
"I—" Illyen's throat tightened. "It feels familiar, but I can't… see it clearly."
Cael stepped closer, the morning light catching faint traces of gold in his eyes. "This is where you first told me you'd never forget me." He smiled, softly, painfully. "You lied beautifully that day."
Illyen's breath trembled. He looked down at the ground — wet petals scattered like fallen stars across the grass. "If I did, I didn't mean to."
"I know." Cael's voice was gentle. "You never mean to leave me behind. It's simply what time does to us."
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn't empty — it was thick with all the things they had yet to say. The faint breeze brushed past, carrying the smell of magnolia and rain.
"Do you hate me for forgetting?" Illyen whispered.
Cael shook his head. "Never. I only hate the gods for making remembrance a punishment."
Illyen's chest ached — not with guilt, but with something deeper, like grief turned inside out. "You said once… that memory hurts."
"It does." Cael's gaze softened. "But it's also the only thing that binds what's broken. Without it, I wouldn't know who I am. Or who you are."
He looked past Illyen, toward the edge of the garden where the mist began to lift. "When I was a boy, I used to come here and wonder why this place felt sacred. The priests said it was because the magnolia tree was older than the empire. But I think it's because you once laughed here."
"Laughed?" Illyen's lips curved faintly. "That seems unlikely."
Cael chuckled quietly, the sound soft as silk. "You laughed often — though you denied it every time. You said laughter was unbecoming of a duke's son. But when you did, the whole garden seemed to listen."
Illyen looked up at the branches above them, dripping light and water. "Then maybe it's listening again."
Cael tilted his head. "Perhaps it's waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to remember enough to laugh again."
The air stilled — and in that fragile pause, Illyen felt something shift. A flicker at the edge of his mind: sunlight filtering through magnolia petals, a young voice calling his name, laughter echoing like wind through leaves. He gasped softly, gripping the edge of a stone bench for balance.
"Illyen—" Cael stepped forward, steadying him once more, the same way he had in the Hall.
Their eyes met — and this time, something passed between them, faint but unmistakable.
A shared pulse. A breath from another lifetime.
Images flashed — a golden afternoon, a boy in royal blue reaching out with muddy hands, a promise whispered under a magnolia tree: "Even if the stars fade, I'll find you."
When the vision faded, Illyen was trembling. Tears slipped down his cheeks without permission.
Cael brushed one away with the back of his fingers. "It's starting," he said softly.
Illyen exhaled shakily. "It feels like drowning."
"Then let me be the shore," Cael whispered. "This time, you won't face it alone."
The wind stirred. The tree above them shivered, and a few petals drifted down, landing between their hands.
Illyen looked at them — pale, perfect, fleeting — and something inside him steadied.
"Cael," he said quietly, his voice almost breaking. "If I forget again… will you still wait?"
Cael smiled, a quiet sorrow in it. "That's the only thing I've ever known how to do."
The bell from the distant shrine tolled again, its sound rolling across the misty gardens like a heartbeat. Illyen turned toward the horizon, where light broke gently through the clouds — not blinding, but tender.
He could almost hear the whisper of the Hall again, ancient and alive: "The thread never dies."
And as the morning sun spilled across the wet earth, catching in Cael's hair and the magnolia's bloom, Illyen realized — remembering was not only pain.
It was the beginning of finding his way back.