Night did not fall so much as it gathered.
It came in layers—first the dimming of gold along the palace walls, then the quiet cooling of stone, then the slow ignition of lamps as servants moved with deliberate care, as if the air itself might bruise if handled too roughly. The palace had learned restraint.
Illyen felt it as he walked.
Not watched—not exactly—but accompanied. Like a presence just behind his shoulder, close enough to feel, far enough to respect the distance. The corridor of memory did not demand his attention tonight. It merely followed, attentive as breath.
He dismissed his attendants at the threshold of the eastern gallery.
The space beyond was long and open, its windows arched high, curtains drawn back to reveal the city below. Lights bloomed across Serethis like a constellation inverted—human stars, imperfect and alive. Illyen rested his hands on the cool stone of the balustrade and let himself be still.
For the first time in days, nothing pressed.
No images. No echoes. No sharp, aching pull toward something unnamed.
Just… presence.
Footsteps approached, unhurried.
Cael did not announce himself. He never did, not when it mattered.
"I thought I might find you here," he said quietly.
Illyen smiled without turning. "You always do."
Cael came to stand beside him, close enough that their sleeves brushed. He had changed out of court attire, the weight of ceremony shed for something simpler—dark fabric, clean lines, no insignia save the ring at his finger. The crown was absent again.
It struck Illyen, not for the first time, how intentional that was.
"How is the city tonight?" Cael asked.
"Restless," Illyen replied after a moment. "But not afraid."
Cael nodded. "They feel it too, then."
"Yes."
Silence settled—not empty, not awkward. A silence that knew where it belonged.
Illyen tilted his head slightly. "You've been avoiding the western wing."
Cael huffed a quiet laugh. "Have I?"
"You always take the long way around now."
"I prefer my detours deliberate."
Illyen glanced at him. "You're afraid of what you'll remember there."
Cael didn't deny it.
"I'm afraid of what you'll remember," he corrected softly.
Illyen studied his profile—the calm set of his mouth, the tension held carefully in his jaw. Love lived there, unmistakable and unadorned. Not the dramatic kind. The enduring kind. The kind that survived centuries by learning how to be quiet.
"You don't need to protect me from myself," Illyen said.
Cael met his gaze. "No. But I will anyway."
The honesty of it landed gently, like a hand placed over the heart.
Illyen exhaled. "Then stay."
Cael did not hesitate.
They remained there as the city breathed below them. Somewhere a bell rang the hour. Somewhere else, laughter lifted and faded. Life, stubborn and untheatrical, went on.
"I dreamed," Cael said eventually.
Illyen did not look away from the lights. "You don't usually tell me that."
"I don't usually dream," Cael replied.
That earned his full attention.
"What did you see?"
Cael considered, words chosen with care. "A room. Bare stone. No windows. I was younger—or perhaps only less tired. I was arguing with someone I couldn't see."
Illyen felt a faint tightening in his chest. "About what?"
"About inevitability," Cael said. "They kept saying some things were necessary. I kept saying they were cruel."
Illyen swallowed. "And who won?"
Cael's smile was thin. "No one ever wins those arguments."
The corridor of memory stirred—not intrusively, but with interest.
Illyen reached out, fingers brushing Cael's wrist. The contact was grounding, steady. Real.
"I didn't read the book," Illyen said again, as if reaffirming the choice aloud could anchor it further.
"I know," Cael said. "I felt it."
Illyen arched a brow. "You felt me not doing something?"
Cael's lips curved. "I've spent lifetimes noticing the absence of pain."
That shouldn't have been funny.
It was.
Illyen laughed softly, the sound surprising even himself. It loosened something in his chest, something he hadn't realized he'd been holding too tightly.
Cael watched him like it was a miracle.
The laughter faded, leaving warmth behind.
"I don't remember," Illyen said quietly. "Not fully. But I understand now that forgetting was never emptiness. It was… preservation."
Cael nodded. "The Veil didn't erase you. It sheltered you."
"And you?"
Cael's gaze drifted back to the city. "I was not meant to be sheltered."
Illyen turned fully toward him. "That doesn't make it right."
"No," Cael agreed. "But it made it possible."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of roses from the lower gardens. Illyen closed his eyes briefly, and this time—this time—the image came unbidden.
Hands tangled together beneath moonlight.
A voice saying his name like a vow.
He inhaled sharply.
Cael noticed immediately. "Illyen?"
"I saw something," Illyen admitted. "Just a fragment."
Cael went still—not withdrawing, not pressing. Present.
"What was it?"
Illyen searched for the shape of it. "Not an event. A feeling. Safety. The kind that exists even when the world is unkind."
Cael's breath shuddered once, barely perceptible.
"That was you," Cael said.
Illyen opened his eyes. "You don't know that."
"Yes," Cael replied softly. "I do."
They stood like that, suspended between past and present, memory and meaning.
"I think," Illyen said slowly, "that when the Veil falls, it won't feel like being struck by truth."
Cael waited.
"It will feel like coming home to a room I've always lived in," Illyen finished. "One I simply hadn't opened all the doors to yet."
Cael's voice was rough. "I have been standing in that room alone for a very long time."
Illyen reached up, resting his hand against Cael's chest, right over his heart. The beat beneath his palm was strong. Insistent. Alive.
"Not anymore," Illyen said.
The words settled between them—not dramatic, not loud.
Foundational.
Somewhere far below, deep within the palace's oldest bones, something ancient shifted its weight. Agreements—old, frayed, long overdue—began to loosen their grip.
The Veil did not tear.
It thinned.
And for the first time, it did not mourn what it was losing.
It trusted what would remain.