The lamp on his desk guttered low, smoke curling in tired spirals. Leoleta sat slouched in the chair, coat cast aside, sword tossed carelessly across his bed. A loose nightshirt hung crooked on his frame, one side sliding off to reveal the bandaged wound at his ribs — a constant ache he bore like penance. The ship's timbers answered the sea with slow, bone-deep creaks, as though the hull itself remembered every storm.
The faint scent of oil clung to everything—steel, parchment, skin. The air inside the cabin was thick with salt and exhaustion. Each sway of the ship felt like breath drawn from something ancient and vast, a reminder that even the sea had memory. He no longer marked the hours; they blurred together, endless as the tide.
The knock came just past midnight.
A sound too soft to wake most men, but Leoleta had not truly slept in weeks.
He rose before the second knock, hand brushing at his side out of habit, the air inside the cabin cool and still. The lantern burned low, its light barely reaching the corners.
He opened the door.
Cold wind slipped past her cloak, carrying the brine of rain and distance. She stood in the threshold—barefoot, pale, her cloak thrown hastily over her nightdress. The sight hollowed the air between them. For weeks he had imagined this moment—her awake, speaking, alive—but all the words he might have said vanished the instant their eyes met. The sea wind had caught strands of her hair, tangling them against her cheeks.
For a heartbeat neither spoke.
"My lady," he said at last, the formality instinctive, his voice quieter than the waves outside. "You should—"
Her expression flickered—hurt, pride, exhaustion all stitched together. "Spare me the rehearsed lines. Are you going to invite me in?" she asked.
He stepped aside without protest, closing the door as she moved past him, her cloak brushing the edge of his desk.
"Forgive me," he answered. "The Lords made their ruling. My—"
"You obey them easily," she said, voice trembling. "You—of all people—were never supposed to be their pawn."
Her accusation rang through the cabin. He felt the words settle into him, layer by layer, like the sting of old scars reopened. There was no answer he could give her that would not betray a deeper truth.
He absorbed the words without defense. They hit like blows he knew he deserved.
"Yes, I agree." he said finally.
Leoleta remained by the door, hands clasped behind his back. "My lady, you were unconscious for days. I thought… if I stayed away, you might wake to peace instead of -"
Cassandra scoffed. "Nightmares? Please, you cannot guard those."
The wind howled against the hull, and for a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was thick with things unspoken: the blood in the garden, the ashes that never should have been there, the name he still would not say aloud.
He wanted to ask if she remembered that night, if she was recovering well. But the words stayed buried beneath the weight of everything he hadn't said since.
She looked out the small porthole, fingers tightening on the frame. "It seems everything I want to say to you about that night gets caught in my throat. But…" Her voice dipped, steady but soft. "I am truly grateful you are alive, Leoleta. You have saved my life yet again."
He winced at the words. He had saved her, yes — but at what cost? What good was his power if he could not keep the people around him from getting hurt?
"I do not deserve your thanks," he said quietly. "I've failed you more than once now. I—"
"Nonsense." She turned from the glass to face him fully. "I do not consider anything you've done a failure."
The words lingered in the air. For a moment he simply stared at her, shoulders squared but eyes lowered, as if unsure how to carry the weight of her absolution.
"You stood there," she said. "In the end you fought by my side."
Cassandra stepped closer, stopping just short of him. Her eyes looked like pale fire in the dim room, the lanternlight catching the tremor in her hands. "In truth, Leoleta, I am terrified. There is so much of this world I do not know." Her voice thinned, but did not break. "I will need your guidance just a little while longer."
"As you wish," he said.
Her chin lifted then, defiance flickering through her fear. "But hear me now, Leoleta," she said, each word deliberate. "You don't get to be my anchor one moment and my ghost the next."
The line hit him harder than any blade. For an instant he felt the old reflex—to step forward, to reach out—but he held himself still, hands clasped behind his back.
"I understand," he said quietly.
Something in her composure cracked. Before he could react, Cassandra closed the distance between them, throwing her arms around him. Her cloak brushed his bandaged ribs as she pressed her face into his chest.
"Forgive me, Leoleta," she whispered. "I'm just so thankful you're alive."
Her words trembled against him, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the uneven rhythm of her breath, the frailty of it, as though she were afraid the moment would break if she moved too suddenly.
He stood rigid under the sudden weight of her. His arms hovered for a heartbeat, then settled lightly on her shoulders—not drawing her close, but steadying her as one steadies someone on a rolling deck.
"There is nothing to forgive," he said, voice low. "You owe me no apology."
Her hands clenched briefly at his shirt before she stepped back, wiping at her eyes. She laughed. "I… I don't know what's happening to me," she murmured. "Gods, I am so childish. Everything is changing so fast."
"You're not childish," he said. "You're human. You've been through more than most endure in a lifetime."
Cassandra shook her head, still smiling faintly, though her eyes shimmered. "You always know what to say."
"Do you need me to call for Liaerin?" he asked, his voice careful, measured.
"No need," she said softly. "I'll retire to my cabin."
She paused at the threshold, the lantern's light brushing gold across her features. For a moment, the weight between them felt lighter—still heavy with what had been left unsaid, but no longer unbearable.
She looked at him and smiled. "Goodnight, Leoleta."
He inclined his head. "Rest well, my lady."
She hesitated, her hand still on the door. "I trust I will see you at your post in the morning?"
His answer came without hesitation. "At first light."
Cassandra nodded once, drawing her cloak close as she stepped into the corridor. The door shut quietly behind her, leaving only the sea's pulse and the faint hiss of the dying lamp.
Leoleta stood for a long while, watching the light fade across the floorboards. Then he reached for his sword, setting it back upon the table with deliberate care. The ache in his ribs pulsed once—a reminder of what had been lost, and what still needed guarding.
He lingered by the porthole, the black water below folding and unfolding like a living thing. In the endless darkness he could barely tell where the sea ended and the night began. The sea whispered against the hull, patient and eternal, and he wondered whether it kept its own tally of oaths broken and vows kept.