The cottage had grown quiet.
Too quiet for Charlotte's liking. Not with a stranger asleep by their hearth and the shadows of two lifetimes clawing at the edges of her peace.
Finn stood with arms crossed, watching the man from the doorway. Twenty-five now, with sun-dark skin and coal-black hair like ink in water. He had the same intense eyes she remembered Eladin having—eyes that asked questions even when the mouth stayed shut.
"You know who he is," Finn said at last, voice low.
"I do."
"He's from the other world."
"Yes."
Finn didn't move. "The one you came from."
Charlotte, seated at the table, nodded. A thin line of steam curled from her untouched tea. She hadn't spoken of the dreams lately. The ache. The name she no longer used. But Finn had always known. Had known without needing to be told.
Because he had lived it too.
"He used to guard me," Charlotte said, after a moment. "Swore he'd keep me safe. Even after I died."
"You didn't die," Finn said quietly. "You were dragged here."
"I know."
They both looked at the sleeping knight.
Elias's armor was still caked in dust from the portal—what remained of it. His face, older than she remembered, bore the faint shadows of grief carved deep by time. It had been only a few years for her.
But perhaps a single day in the capital had stretched into a decade here. Or more.
Charlotte rose. "He wrote a letter to Eladin and Mira," she said, pulling a worn envelope from Elias's cloak. "He told them he'd bring me back."
Finn's jaw tightened. "Will you go?"
Charlotte turned to face him. "Do you want me to?"
For a long time, Finn said nothing. Then:
"I dream of them sometimes. Of halls with red carpet. A throne. A girl who laughed like a storm." His voice dipped. "I think I was Eladin. Or maybe... someone else who loved you like he did."
"You are Eladin," Charlotte whispered. "In the only way that matters."
Silence fell again.
Then Finn laughed, bitter and bright. "Then why is our kingdom a pigsty and our court three chickens and a drunk midwife?"
Charlotte smiled faintly. "Even a queen has to start somewhere."
That night, Elias stirred. When he awoke, he found Charlotte sitting across from him, the firelight throwing copper glints through her hair. She didn't look startled.
She looked tired.
"You're older," he rasped.
"So are you," she replied.
He sat up slowly. "I came to bring you home."
She didn't move. "You're too late."
Elias froze.
"There's a city with your name on it," he said, voice shaking. "A capital that mourns you. A kingdom that changed because of you. Your brother rules in your name. Your death started wars. Ended others."
Charlotte looked over her shoulder.
Finn stood there, leaning against the frame, watching the man who once wore steel for her. His arms were crossed. His expression unreadable.
"Did they build me a statue?" she asked suddenly.
Elias blinked. "What?"
"A statue. Something grand. Marble or gold?"
"Yes," he said hoarsely. "In the central square. Children lay flowers at its feet."
Charlotte exhaled.
"I don't want to be a statue," she said. "I want to be real. And I'm real here. With him."
Elias looked between them. Between Charlotte—the woman who had once ruled his heart—and Finn, the echo of her brother, now grown into something more than memory.
"You don't belong in this world," Elias said.
She rose to her feet. "Maybe not. But I made myself belong. And that's more than I ever got the chance to do before."
Elias reached out, but she stepped away.
"I'm not the girl you buried," she said. "I'm the woman who climbed out."