Elias hadn't requested a room.
He simply took the corner by the fire, sword always within reach, as he had for decades. Charlotte had offered him the spare cot, but he'd declined with a quiet, "Old habits."
She hadn't pressed the matter.
She understood.
Each morning, she woke before Finn, only to find Elias already outside—splitting wood, stoking the hearth, or brewing something that might generously be called tea. He didn't hover. He didn't prod. He was simply there—with the stillness of a stone wall. Solid. Present. Unmoving.
It annoyed her at first.
Then it comforted her.
And later, it began to mend something inside her that she hadn't realized was still bleeding.
The First Shift
A storm rolled in, tearing through the sky with thunder and bitter memory. The roof groaned under the weight of wind and forgotten grief.
Charlotte couldn't sleep. The thunder reminded her of the council doors slamming the day Vellador's treachery was exposed. Of her mother's voice—sharp, terrified. Of Eladin's small hands gripping hers.
Wrapped in her cloak, she sat by the window, watching the rain streak the glass.
Elias stirred behind her. "Storm's worse than it sounds."
"I know," she said.
Silence stretched between them, fragile as wet parchment. Then:
"Do you hate me?" she whispered, barely louder than the rain. "For not making it?"
The words hurt to release. But she needed to know.
Elias came to sit beside her. "I mourned you every day," he said. "But I never hated you. I hated that I wasn't there. I hated that you were alone."
"I wasn't," she breathed. "Mira stayed. And Eladin… in his way. But it wasn't enough."
"No," Elias said gently. "It wasn't."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. It felt strange. Too grown. Too real. They were no longer the firebrand princess and the knight who taught her to wield hairpins like daggers.
And yet—she stayed.
And he let her.
The Second Shift
Finn had gone to the river for provisions. The sun hung low, painting the garden gold. Inside, Charlotte pulled out a cracked chessboard—rescued by Finn from a merchant's stall and thrust into her hands with a knowing grin.
"You always liked this game, didn't you, Lina?"
She had. Once.
Elias raised a brow. "You always played too aggressively."
"You always turtled," she retorted, smiling. "Strategy dressed up as cowardice."
They played three matches.
She lost twice. Won once.
He didn't seem to care.
On the third game, she asked, "Do you remember what you said the night before the Harvest Moon?"
Elias froze. "I remember every word."
Her gaze held his. "You told me I wasn't cursed. That they feared what they couldn't kill."
"I meant it."
"You still believe that?"
"I never stopped."
The silence between them was warmer now. Not hollow, but full—of unspoken things. Shared dreams. Shared death. Shared survival.
And something else.
Something wordless, but growing.
The Third Shift
They were in the garden—what little garden they'd managed from stubborn soil and cracked tools. Elias helped her kneel to replant the sage. She brushed dirt from his cheek. A small, unthinking gesture.
But it lingered.
Her fingers trembled.
He caught her wrist, gently.
"You're not alone anymore," he said.
She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.
Instead, she whispered, "I know."
And she did.
She didn't know what they were—not quite. Not yet. She had loved many things in her first life: her kingdom, her people, her stories. But love—the kind between two souls—had always been a distant echo.
Now it felt near.
Now it felt earned.
Something they chose, day by day. Carefully. Bit by bit.
In the days that followed, the village noticed. The way Charlotte leaned into Elias's arm when she laughed. The way he stood just slightly between her and the road. The way Finn smirked knowingly when they argued like fire meeting flint.
Something had shifted.
And it would keep shifting.
The butterflies had taken flight.
And soon, the world would feel their wings.