The maze spits me out in silence.
One moment I'm surrounded by choking fog, runes flickering in the corners of my vision, blood pounding in my ears. The next, I'm stumbling into the chill of the courtyard, breath ragged and body screaming.
Light.
Cold air slaps my face. The sky yawns open above me, a pale stretch of stars and gray. I made it. First one out.
The Raven Guard closes in fast, recording my name, my team, peppering me with questions. I answer in clipped tones, eyes still scanning the swirling mist behind me.
Where is she?
Where is Elena?
I keep walking, past the officials, past the healers who try to tug me aside. My fists are clenched, jaw locked tight. She should be out by now. She should've made it.
But she didn't.
I pace the perimeter of the circle, straining for a glimpse through the haze. The Trials were brutal this year. Worse than they warned. But she's—
She's her.
And I can't breathe until I see her again.
A half hour passes. Then more.
Still nothing.
Then the light shifts. The fog cracks.
A shimmer flares to the left. The stone circle glows.
And four figures stumble out.
Fynn. Samora. Kadyn.
And her.
She doesn't walk. She staggers, one hand pressed to her side, the other gripping Samora's arm. Her tunic is soaked with blood, dirt streaked across her cheeks. Her braid is half undone, falling loose around her face like wildfire made flesh.
And even like that—
Gods, she's stunning.
I move before I think.
The Raven Guard is already shouting. "Get her to the infirmary!"
One of them rushes forward, but I'm faster. I shove past, catching her just as her knees buckle.
"I've got her," I snap, scooping her into my arms.
She blinks up at me, dazed.
"Caelen?"
"You always have to do everything the hard way, don't you?" I mutter, but my voice is too tight. Too soft.
She tries to smirk, fails. Her eyes roll back.
I carry her straight through the courtyard, ignoring the looks, ignoring the medics trying to intervene. Her blood is warm against my skin. Her head lolls against my chest.
Too pale.
Too still.
I don't leave her side after that.
The infirmary is too quiet.
A single lantern glows in the corner, casting amber light across the room. She hasn't moved in hours. The healers came and went, muttering about head wounds and spell-burns. Fynn nearly started a fight when they made him leave. Samora swore she'd be back the second she found food.
I stayed.
And now, I sit.
Elbows on knees. Hands clenched.
Watching her.
There's a scar just under her jaw I've never noticed before. A faint curve like a crescent moon. Her breathing is steady now, but the sight of her like this—still, fragile, wounded—makes something twist in my chest.
She's supposed to be lightning. Wild and untouchable. Untamed.
Not broken.
I run a hand through my hair. I haven't even cleaned up. There's still dried blood on my shirt, the smell of ash on my skin. Doesn't matter. I'm not leaving.
A sound.
Sheets rustling.
Her eyes flutter open.
My breath catches.
"Stop," I say instantly, standing. "Don't move too fast."
She blinks. Slow. Confused. "How long…?"
"Day and a half," I reply, voice low. "You lost a lot of blood."
She shifts again, winces. "The others?"
"Fine. Banged up. Samora's shoulder's a mess. Kadyn's bruised. Fynn nearly decked a guard. But they're okay."
Relief washes over her face like sunlight through smoke. And even like this, even after everything—
She's beautiful.
"Why are you here?" she asks.
I smirk. Can't help it. "What, expecting someone else?"
"I figured they'd send a Healer. Or someone I actually like."
"You were delirious. Kept muttering things in the Old Tongue. They thought you might wake up screaming."
Her eyes narrow. "You volunteered."
I shrug. "Didn't want you waking up alone."
That shuts her up.
She looks at me like I'm something unfamiliar. Something unsolved.
Like I matter.
"You scared the hell out of me," I say, voice rough. "You collapsed. I thought—"
I can't finish it.
"You care," she says.
I let out a breath that might be a laugh. Might be a curse. "Don't let it go to your head."
But she's already smiling. Barely.
And it hits me like a punch. That tiny smile. The way she looks at me now. Soft. Curious. Dangerous.
"You stayed," she says again.
I nod.
"You didn't have to."
I meet her eyes.
"No. I didn't."
Silence. But it's not sharp. Not awkward.
It's hers.
She thanks me. Says something about Raven Guards and pain potions.
I tease her. Something about mushrooms and punching Fynn. She groans.
And I can't stop looking.
Her hair's a mess. Her ribs are wrapped. Her eyes are heavy.
And she's still the most vivid thing I've ever seen.
I sit back down in the chair.
"You should sleep more," I say.
"I just woke up."
"Doesn't matter. You're still healing."
She eyes me. "Since when do you care what I need?"
I lean forward. Let her see the truth this time.
"Since you nearly died, Elena."
Her breath catches.
And I see it then—that crack in her armor. That shift.
She sinks back. Eyes fluttering shut again.
"Fine. But don't call me Elena like that. It's weird."
I pause.
Then whisper,
"Alright then… Starlight."
She stirs.
"What—?"
But she's already slipping under.
I watch her a while longer, just to be sure.
And before her eyes close completely, I say it again.
"Sleep well, Starlight."
I lean back in the chair, the wood creaking under me. The silence stretches again, but now it feels… softer. Like it's wrapped in the hush of snowfall. Not the kind that numbs—but the kind that slows the world down just enough to let you breathe.
Her breathing is steadier now. That pale line between her brows has eased. Whatever dreams she's slipping into, I hope they're gentler than the maze.
My hands still haven't stopped shaking.
I glance down. There's dried blood beneath my fingernails—hers, maybe mine. I can't tell anymore. My knuckles are scraped, bruised. I don't remember hitting anything. Probably did.
Probably would've hit the world itself if it meant dragging her out faster.
The lantern sputters a little, casting flickers along the stone walls. I can hear voices echoing distantly down the infirmary corridor—guards shifting post, a healer muttering to someone half-asleep. But it's all background.
She's the only thing in focus.
I study her face again.
There's always been fire in her. Not the kind that burns everything to ash—no, something wilder than that. The kind that dances, unpredictable. That draws you closer before you realize it's already under your skin.
I think it always scared me a little.
Now?
Now I'm terrified of losing it.
A blanket's folded on the chair beside me. I tug it free and carefully, gently, drape it over her. She shifts, murmurs something incoherent, but doesn't wake.
I brush a strand of hair from her cheek. It's a stupid gesture, one people make in stories when they don't know what else to do. But I do it anyway. Because I need to. Because she's here, and warm, and alive, and I don't know how to carry all of that without touching her somehow.
I sit back again, heavier this time.
Exhaustion claws at me from the inside out. Every bone aches. Every thought is half-fog.
But I don't want to close my eyes. Not yet. Not while she's still breathing in that fragile, uneven rhythm. Not while the scent of smoke and blood still lingers in the air like a warning.
Still…
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
The edges of the world blur.
And just before the dark takes me, I let my hand rest on the edge of the bed, fingers close—just close enough to feel the warmth of hers beside them.
I don't take her hand.
But I want to.
Gods, I want to.
I let my eyes close for just a second.
Just one.
Then—
The door creaks open.
I jolt upright, heart hammering, fingers brushing instinctively toward the knife I'm not wearing.
Fynn stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the infirmary light. His frame takes up too much space, like always. His cloak is damp with rain, or sweat, or both, and his expression is unreadable—except for the set of his jaw.
He sees her.
Then sees me.
His lips press into a thin line.
"You're still here," he says flatly.
I stand slowly. Not threatening. Not backing down either.
"She only just got back to sleep."
Fynn steps in, closes the door behind him with more force than necessary. "That wasn't what I asked."
I don't respond.
He walks over to the bed. Looks down at her. That same fire twists in my gut again—different this time. Sharper.
"I brought her food," he says, though he sets nothing down. His eyes never leave her face. "Not that she'll be eating it tonight."
I cross my arms. "She'll be hungry when she wakes up."
"She's not your responsibility."
I don't move. "Didn't say she was."
Fynn turns to face me, and now I can see it—the storm behind his eyes. The guilt. The fury. The fear.
"You think this changes anything?" he asks, voice low. "You sit here for a night, and suddenly you're the one she needs?"
I let the silence answer for a beat. Let it hang there, between us like a blade.
"I didn't stay for points, Fynn."
His eyes narrow. "You stayed because you can't help yourself. Because you think being close means something."
I feel the heat rise in my chest, my throat, but I keep my voice even. "She nearly died. Forgive me for giving a damn."
He steps closer. Barely an arm's length now.
"You don't get to play protector. You don't know her. Not really."
I don't flinch. "And you do?"
"She's been through hell, Caelen. You think a quiet moment in a sickroom makes you important?" His voice sharpens. "Stay away from her. Whatever this is in your head—drop it. She doesn't need you complicating things."
My fists curl. I force them to stay at my sides.
"She's not yours to guard."
"She's not yours to fall for," he snaps.
The words hit harder than I expect. Not because he's right—but because I'm not sure what I'd call it either.
Not yet.
"She can make her own choices," I say, quieter now. "Don't insult her by pretending otherwise."
He scoffs. Turns away like he's had enough, but he lingers. Stares at her one last time. I do too. And something in me settles, deep and unshakable. Elena. Still asleep. Still breathing. And I know—whatever this is between us, whatever it might become— It's real. And I'm not walking away. Not now. Not ever. But I also know this isn't the place to fight about it. Not here. Not while she sleeps. So I take a breath. Step back. Give her one last look. Then I turn to Fynn.
"I'm leaving so she can rest," I say. "Not because of you."
He doesn't answer. I walk to the door. Hand on the handle, I glance back.
"She deserves to wake up to peace. Make sure she gets it."
And then I leave. The door shuts behind me. But I'm not gone. Not really. Not where it counts.