Chapter 14 — The Language of Light
They didn't speak as they left the room.
Not because there was nothing to say, but because silence had become a kind of trust between them — soft, unspoken, and full of meaning.
The palace corridors stretched around them like a lullaby. The torches flickered gently, casting golden light across his face. Lyra watched the way it touched his cheekbones, the way his silver hair caught the glow like moonlight.
He glanced at her.
She looked away, heart fluttering.
They walked slowly, side by side. His hand brushed hers once — not by accident, but not quite on purpose either. She didn't pull away.
Instead, she let her fingers linger.
"I used to think love was loud," he said quietly. "All fire and thunder."
Lyra turned to him. "And now?"
He looked at her, eyes soft. "Now I think it's this."
She smiled — not because she understood completely, but because she wanted to.
They reached a quiet alcove where the walls curved inward, forming a gentle cradle of stone and light. He paused there, and she followed.
He sat first, legs folded, hands resting on his knees. Lyra sat beside him, close enough to feel his warmth.
For a moment, they simply breathed.
Then he spoke again.
"When Elira touched the harp," he said, "she always played the same note. Over and over. I never understood why."
Lyra tilted her head. "Maybe she was waiting for someone to answer."
He looked at her, and something in his expression shifted — not pain, but recognition.
"I never did," he said.
Lyra reached out, slowly, and placed her hand over his.
"You're answering now."
His breath caught.
Her hand was small, cool, steady. He turned his palm upward, letting her fingers slide into his. Their hands fit — not perfectly, but honestly.
"I don't know how to be gentle," he whispered.
Lyra leaned her head against his shoulder. "Then let me show you."
He closed his eyes.
The palace was quiet around them, but inside him, something stirred — not fire, not storm, but light. Soft, steady, and new.
She didn't ask him to change.
She didn't ask him to explain.
She simply stayed.
And in that quiet alcove, where no doors glowed and no threads pulsed, something real unfolded — not loud, not sudden, but true.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to rest his cheek against her hair.
Lyra closed her eyes.
And for the first time, they didn't remember anyone else.
Only each other.