The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened under the pale light of the twin moons. Lyra sat at the far corner of the tavern, her cloak drawn tightly around her, ignoring the low hum of conversation and the clinking of mugs around her.
She had run for three days straight, moving from village to village, hoping that distance could somehow loosen the prophecy's grip on her. But no matter how far she went, it lingered like a shadow in the back of her mind.
"Prophecies are for fools," she whispered to herself, staring at the untouched bowl of stew before her. "I'm no one's fate."
But the memory of Caelen's eyes—those storm-gray depths that seemed to pierce through every defense—kept surfacing, unbidden. She had told herself it was only curiosity, that she wanted to understand why the old scrolls named him as the one tied to her destiny. Yet every heartbeat told her it was more than that.
The tavern door creaked open, letting in a cold draft. She didn't look up at first, but when she did, her heart lurched.
Caelen.
He stood framed in the doorway, damp hair clinging to his face, eyes scanning the room until they locked on hers. There was no surprise in his expression—only a quiet certainty, as if he had known exactly where she'd be.
"You're not easy to follow," he said, stepping toward her table.
"I told you," Lyra snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. "I don't want this. Whatever fate thinks it's planned for us, I'm not interested."
Caelen pulled out the chair across from her, sitting down without asking. "Fate doesn't care what you want. And neither does the darkness that's coming."
Lyra's fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "Then maybe I'll fight it alone."
His lips curved in something that was not quite a smile. "You won't survive it alone."
And for the first time, Lyra wasn't sure if he meant the coming war—or the pull between them.