Kael hadn't spoken since the dawn.
The fortress was quiet now—no alarms, no battle cries, no hiss of spells in the air. Just the echo of bootsteps over worn stone and the uneasy rhythm of breath that came after too much had happened, too fast.
Elira followed him into the war room, the scent of ash still clinging to her skin. Her arms ached. Her mind burned with too many questions, but she didn't ask them yet. Not while he looked like that.
He stood near the shattered map table, head bowed, hands braced against the edge. His sword lay at his side—unsheathed, unused. It had been hours since the battle. Since the Source fell.
Since Serin vanished without a trace.
"You're still bleeding," Elira said gently.
Kael didn't look at her. "It's not mine."
That made something twist in her chest. He didn't speak like a cursed prince anymore. He spoke like a man who had given everything and still expected to lose more.
She walked closer, her steps deliberate.
"I know you think this isn't over."
"It isn't," he said flatly.
She touched his arm, carefully. "But the Source is gone. The Woken—"
"Were only part of it." He lifted his head. His eyes were hollow, but focused. "Serin said I was the Brand's tether. That the kings would burn the world to get me back. That wasn't prophecy, Elira. That was a promise."
Elira didn't flinch. "Then we don't let them."
His laugh was low, humorless. "You say that like it's a choice."
"It is." She stepped in front of him, catching his gaze with hers. "We fight them. We keep fighting them. Or we run. But we choose. Together."
Kael's expression cracked—just a little.
"Together," he repeated, softer.
She nodded.
Something unspoken passed between them—relief and exhaustion and the aching need for something real in a world where so much had been taken.
Kael reached for her then—not urgently, not because of fear or pain, but because he needed her warmth more than he needed distance.
His hand brushed her cheek, rough from battle, steady now.
"Elira," he said, voice low, "I don't know who I am anymore."
"You're still Kael," she said. "The man who didn't break. The man who still chose mercy when he could've given in to rage. The one who carries more than anyone should—but still stands."
He closed his eyes.
"I want to believe you."
"Then let me remind you."
She didn't wait for permission—she leaned up and kissed him.
It wasn't soft.
It was the kiss of two people who had bled beside each other, who had faced the dark and still chosen to stand in it. It was raw and unsure, but full of fire. His hand curled at her waist. Hers tangled in his hair.
They didn't need a bed, not yet. Not here.
The fire between them wasn't about hunger. It was about survival—about needing to feel alive after too long in the dark.
Kael pulled away first, breath ragged. "I shouldn't—"
"You should," Elira whispered. "We should."
He kissed her again—this time slower, with a desperation held in check by reverence.
Outside the window, clouds were gathering again.
The reprieve was real—but it would not last.
Elira rested her forehead against his. "We don't get peace. But maybe... we can have each other."
Kael's voice broke as he whispered, "Then gods help the world if they try to take that too."
Later, when the sun was low again and the air carried the scent of smoke and salt, they stood together atop the ramparts.
The mountains stretched far beyond the horizon.
A raven circled overhead—black wings catching gold light.
Kael watched it vanish toward the north. "We need allies. The Woken kings will send more."
Elira nodded. "Then we go to the Emberlands. The Queen owes us a debt."
He looked at her, pride in his chest despite everything. "You mean she owes you a debt."
"No," she said softly. "Not anymore. She'll answer to both of us now."
Kael took her hand.
Together, they walked down from the battlements—toward what came next. Toward war, yes. But also toward hope.
Even if the world burned again—
—this time, they would burn brighter.