The silence that followed Xieren's plea was a heavy, suffocating thing, deeper than the darkness of the hollow that concealed them. His words, torn from the most terrified corners of his soul, hung in the frigid air: Don't ask me to help you die. He expected tears, or anger, or perhaps even a resigned acceptance. He was not prepared for the quiet strength that met him instead.
In the gloom, Elia stepped forward, closing the space he had put between them. She didn't reach for him. She simply stood before him, a slender, unbending silhouette.
"I'm not," she said, her voice soft but utterly devoid of doubt. "I'm asking you to help me live." She let the words settle, a direct counter to his own.
"What you see as a death sentence, I see as the only air left to breathe.A chance.One single chance to not end up a nameless body in an ash-filled trench, forgotten by everyone. A chance for my mother's moonpetals to be more than just a story."
She finally lifted a hand, not to his chest, but to his cheek, her fingers cool against his skin.
"I am going to do this, Xieren. With or without you. But I don't want to do it without you. I don't think I can."
He looked into the faint outline of her face and saw no path for retreat. Her resolve was a cliff face, unscalable and absolute. He saw the truth in her words: her choice was already made. His was simply whether to let her walk toward it alone. The thought of her, out here in the dark, night after night, trying to wrangle this strange, consuming power by herself while he slept in ignorance, was a thousand times more terrifying than the alternative. His fear for her was an ocean, but her will was a shoreline, and the waves of his protest finally, devastatingly, broke against it.
A long, shuddering breath escaped him, the last of his resistance crumbling into dust. He captured her hand where it rested on his cheek, pressing his lips to her cold knuckles. It was a kiss of surrender, of fealty, of shared, terrifying purpose.
"Okay," he whispered, the word a vow. It did not feel like a victory. It felt like the first step off a cliff, a willing fall into an unknown abyss, with only her hand to hold onto.
Their new reality began the very next night. The rhythm of their lives, once a simple, predictable pattern of labor and rest, was now fractured by a secret, nocturnal current. After the last of the camp had settled into an exhausted sleep, after the snores and wheezes of the other laborers provided a thin blanket of sound, Xieren would slip from his bunk. He would meet Elia in the deep shadows of the collapsed retaining wall, their sanctuary and now their training ground.
The first nights were an exercise in frustration and fear. Xieren's role was that of a sentinel, a ghost flitting at the edges of the hollow, his senses stretched to an almost painful degree. Every gust of wind sounded like the crunch of a boot, every far-off shout from a Faction patrol on the perimeter ridges sent a jolt of ice through his veins. He was her eyes and ears, a living shield against discovery.
For Elia, the struggle was internal. She would sit with her legs crossed, her eyes closed in concentration, her brow furrowed. She tried to summon the Oryn as she had before, to call up that wellspring of golden light. But power, Xieren, was learning, was not a servant to be beckoned. It was a wild, capricious thing.
"I can't," she would whisper, her voice tight with frustration after a long, fruitless silence.
"I feel it, like a word on the tip of my tongue, but I can't speak it."
"Just breathe," he would murmur back, his voice a low anchor in her sea of doubt. "Don't force it. Just remember the feeling."
He would bring her a waterskin. He would place his hand on her shoulder, offering a silent, steady pressure. And she would try again. Sometimes, a faint warmth would bloom in her palms, a brief, apologetic flicker before vanishing. Other times, nothing happened at all, and the only result was the tremor of exhaustion that began to take root in her hands.
Then, on the fourth night, something changed. Xieren was crouched behind a pile of rubble, his gaze fixed on the distant, swinging lantern of a lone patrol, when a soft, humming sound reached him. He turned.
Elia was holding her hands out, palms up. Floating just above them was a sphere of light, no bigger than his fist, but perfect. It pulsed with a gentle, steady rhythm, the same warm, golden light as before, casting soft shadows that danced around her. It made a low, resonant sound, like a single, sustained note from a stringed instrument. Her face, illuminated from below, was a mask of intense concentration, sweat beading on her temples despite the biting cold.
"I did it," she breathed, her eyes wide with a mixture of triumph and awe.
"You did," Xieren whispered back, a slow, relieved smile spreading across his face. The beauty of it, the pure, untainted magic of it, struck him with the force of a physical blow. It was hope, given form and light.
But the moment of triumph was fleeting. The sphere of light wavered, then collapsed inward with a soft whump, plunging them back into darkness. Elia gasped and slumped forward, her breath coming in ragged pants. Xieren was at her side in an instant, helping her sit up.
"It takes so much," she rasped, her body trembling with exertion. "It feels like it's pulling the strength right from my bones."
He wrapped his own thin blanket around her shoulders, his heart aching at the sight of her depletion.
"That's enough for tonight," he said, his voice firm.
"We'll try again tomorrow."
The cost of their secret began to manifest in the daylight hours. Elia grew paler, the shadows under her eyes deepening to bruised lavender. She moved through her camp chores with a determined slowness, her energy carefully conserved. Xieren, in turn, pushed himself to his physical limit. He finished his own grueling trench-work with a frantic energy, then moved to take on her tasks before anyone could notice. He mended nets with fingers that were clumsy from shovel-work, he scrubbed pots with an unpracticed hand, he hauled water until his back screamed in protest. He explained it away with flimsy excuses—a debt owed, a favor returned—but he knew it wasn't convincing.
He felt the weight of Fen's gaze on him constantly. The old man watched from a distance, his slate-gray eyes missing nothing. He saw Xieren intercepting a heavy load from Elia's arms. He saw Elia leaning against a tent post for a long moment, her eyes closed, fighting off a wave of dizziness. He saw the frantic, haunted look in Xieren's eyes.
One afternoon, as Xieren was scrubbing a large stew pot—a job Elia usually handled. He heard quiet footsteps behind him. Fen ambled over and, without a word, began drying the pots. They worked in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the scrape of the brush and the clatter of iron.
"A man only works himself to the bone for two reasons," Fen said finally, his voice a low, casual rumble. "Either he's running from something, or he's protecting something." He paused, placing a clean pot on the stack with deliberate care. "You're not the running type, Xieren."
Xieren's hands froze in the greasy water. He kept his head down, his knuckles white where he gripped the brush. "Just trying to be helpful."
"Helpful is one thing. Killing yourself is another," Fen said. He sighed, a weary, paternal sound.
"The girl is fading before our eyes. And you're stretched as thin as a threadbare cloak. You think an old man is too blind to see it?"
He placed a heavy, calloused hand on Xieren's shoulder, forcing him to look up. "Whatever secret you two are keeping, I hope to all the forgotten gods it's worth the price you're so clearly paying."
Fen's eyes held no accusation, only a deep, profound sorrow and a worry that felt like a physical weight. He gave Xieren's shoulder a final, firm squeeze and walked away, leaving Xieren shivering in the cold, feeling stripped bare. The lie he had to live was one thing; the lie he had to perpetuate against the man who had raised him was another burden entirely. It felt like a betrayal.
That night, the lie almost broke.
Xieren was late returning from their training session. Elia had managed to sustain the sphere of light for almost a full minute, a monumental achievement that had left her utterly spent. He had practically carried her back to her tent, his mind consumed with worry over her dwindling strength. As he finally turned toward his own bunk, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the tool shed. It was Fen.
"You keep late hours," Fen said, his voice quiet but carrying an unmistakable edge.
Xieren's heart hammered against his ribs. "Couldn't sleep. Just… walking." The lie felt clumsy and brittle on his tongue.
"Walking," Fen repeated, his tone flat. "That's the second time this week I've seen you 'walking' back from the retaining wall at this hour. Nothing out there but rubble and ghosts."
He took a step closer, his face etched with concern in the faint moonlight.
"I spoke to Rhus today. He said Elia nearly fainted while serving the midday meal. Said she looks like she has the wasting sickness."
"She's not sick," Xieren said, too quickly. "She's just… tired."
"We're all tired, boy!" Fen's voice rose to a harsh whisper. "This is different. This is a sickness of the soul, or a secret that's eating her alive from the inside out. And it's eating you, too."
He jabbed a thick finger toward Xieren's chest.
"You think I don't love you like a son? You think I don't see the hole you're digging for yourself, for both of you? Talk to me, Xieren. Whatever it is, we can face it together."
The sincerity in Fen's plea was a physical blow. For a wild, desperate moment, Xieren wanted to tell him everything—about the Oryn, the Trials, the impossible, fragile hope they were nurturing in the dark. The desire to unburden himself, to share the crushing weight with this man who was his rock, his father, was so strong it made him dizzy.
But he saw Elia's face in his mind. He saw the golden light and the promise they'd made. A secret shared with one was a secret no longer. Fen's love was true, but his pragmatism was absolute. He would see only the danger. He would try to stop them. Xieren had to protect the dream, even from the man he trusted most.
He hardened his heart, building a wall inside himself brick by brick.
"There's nothing to tell," he said, the words tasting like ash.
"You're seeing shadows where there are none. We're fine."
Fen stared at him for a long, silent moment. The warmth and worry in his eyes slowly cooled, replaced by a profound disappointment that was far worse than any anger. He had offered his hand, and Xieren had slapped it away. The invisible thread of trust that had bound them for two decades had just been dangerously frayed.
"Alright, boy," Fen said finally, his voice flat and heavy. He stepped back, creating a chasm between them. "Have it your way."
He turned and disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Xieren standing alone, the weight of his lies a cold, heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. He was more isolated than ever before, a lone sentinel guarding a flickering flame in a world of gathering darkness.
Xieren stood alone beneath the sky, the shadows of the Burn Field stretching endlessly around him. The weight of Fen's disappointment was heavier than anything he'd carried in the trenches. Every heartbeat seemed to hammer home the magnitude of what he'd just done. He had lied to the one man who had never lied to him. The ache inside his chest was a sharp reminder of the price he'd agreed to pay. Yet even now, regret seemed pointless. It was too late to turn back.
The camp lay quiet as Xieren moved toward his bunk, his body feeling heavier with every step. As he slid into bed, sleep avoided him, his mind haunted by a thousand worries. Every noise outside his tent felt amplified—the faint rustle of canvas, the soft scrape of boots against dirt, the distant cough of a laborer. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to shut out the relentless whispers of anxiety.
Eventually, he drifted into a restless sleep. Dreams rose around him like ghosts, flickering, insubstantial memories that shifted and blurred. In one, Fen turned away again and again, his gaze dark and unreadable. In another, Elia stood before the Faction Tribunal, her hands glowing brilliantly, yet she was collapsing, crumbling to ash before his eyes.
Xieren woke with a jolt, his breathing ragged. The dream clung to him, vivid and terrifying. His hands shook slightly as he pushed himself upright. Morning had come, pale and cold, creeping beneath the edge of the tent. Already, the camp was stirring, and the quiet murmurs of life began to trickle in around him.
Stepping outside, Xieren felt disconnected, a stranger in the place he'd always known. People moved past him, their faces weary masks, unaware of the chaos churning in his heart. His gaze found Fen by the cooking fires, the older man focused grimly on his tasks. Fen did not look up, pointedly ignoring him. The deliberate distance hurt more than Xieren expected, but he accepted it as the first bitter taste of the isolation he'd chosen.
Elia appeared from between two tents, her face pale but resolute. Seeing him, she gave a careful, questioning smile, the kind meant to reassure, but it only deepened his unease. How long could they hide this before someone else began to suspect? How long before the weight became too great for both of them to carry?
As the day unfolded, Xieren retreated into the familiar numbness of trench work. His shovel bit into cold earth, the same motion a comforting distraction from the turmoil within. The trench was a sanctuary, a place where he could bury his guilt beneath layers of dirt. But even there, beneath the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone, Fen's voice lingered in his mind, each word etched painfully clear: Talk to me, Xieren. Whatever it is, we can face it together.
He dug harder, working with feverish intensity, until sweat ran cold down his spine and his arms trembled from exhaustion. But still, he could not escape Fen's voice—or Elia's determination. Each time he paused to catch his breath, her words whispered through his thoughts: I am going to do this, Xieren. With or without you.
When dusk finally bled across the horizon, turning the sky into bruised shades of purple and gray, Xieren climbed wearily from the trench, body aching, mind still spinning. Elia waited by the water barrels, her posture rigid with carefully hidden fatigue.
"How did it go today?" he asked softly, handing her a filled waterskin.
Her lips twisted in a small, brittle smile. "I'm getting better. The light is stronger, lasts longer. But so does the exhaustion. It drains me. I have to push myself harder each time."
He frowned. "You have to be careful."
"I know," she whispered, looking up at him with determination and a hint of vulnerability. "But I'm running out of time. If I'm not strong enough for the Trials..."
He reached out, gently gripping her shoulder, feeling the fragile tension beneath his fingertips. "You will be. I'll make sure of it."
Her expression softened, gratitude mingled with uncertainty. "Fen spoke to me today," she admitted quietly. "He's worried about you. About us."
"I know," Xieren said, pain flickering in his eyes. "He confronted me last night. I lied to him."
Elia's eyes filled with quiet sympathy. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he replied sharply, shaking his head. "It was my choice. Our choice."
She hesitated, then said softly, "Maybe we should tell him. Fen could help—"
"No," Xieren interrupted harshly. He immediately softened his tone, realizing how sharp it had sounded. "Not yet. Not until we have no choice. If we involve Fen now, we put him at risk too. He wouldn't just stand aside. He'd try to protect us, and that would make him a target."
She nodded slowly, understanding the bitter truth of his words. The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of unspoken fears. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.
"Then we keep going. We're so close, Xieren. I feel it. Just a little longer."
He stared at her for a long, aching moment, marveling at the strength he saw in her. Despite everything—the exhaustion, the danger, the suffocating weight of secrecy—she still stood defiant, hopeful. He envied and feared it in equal measure.
"Alright," he agreed softly. "We keep going."
That night, beneath the silent vigil of stars hidden by thick clouds, they returned once more to their sanctuary behind the fallen retaining wall. Elia knelt in the dirt, eyes closed, hands raised slightly. Xieren stood watch, his attention divided between the quiet darkness around them and the luminous figure before him.
Slowly, deliberately, Elia's hands began to glow. The golden light swirled gently around her fingertips, brighter and steadier than before. It painted her features in warm, ethereal radiance. She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. The glow reflected in her irises, making them shimmer like pools of captured sunlight.
He watched her closely, memorizing every detail. He would need these moments, these images, when doubt inevitably crept back in. They were his proof that hope was still possible, still alive.
But as the glow faded and exhaustion once more slumped her shoulders, Xieren felt the cold grip of dread tighten around him. It was becoming clearer with every practice, every passing day, how much this power took from her. Elia was pushing her body to its limit and beyond.
As they walked silently back to their tents, Xieren resolved to protect her even more fiercely. He couldn't stop her from pursuing this dangerous path, but he would do everything in his power to ensure she reached the end of it alive.
Days turned into weeks, and the fragile routine they had built became a lifeline. Xieren carried their secret alone, shielding Elia from suspicion and strain as best he could. He watched Fen carefully, painfully aware of the older man's increasing distance. Fen had not confronted him again, but their interactions were strained, a fragile peace punctuated by tense silences and avoided glances.
It was during an evening meal that their tenuous balance was shattered again. Fen's voice broke the silence, unexpected and calm.
"They'll be sending scouts soon, looking for Writemark potential candidates." Fen glanced briefly at Xieren, his expression unreadable.
"It's that time again."
Xieren's spoon froze halfway to his mouth.
"What does that mean for us?"
Fen shrugged, stirring his bowl without appetite.
"Means Darek will have eyes everywhere. Anyone showing promise—or hiding secrets—will attract notice. Means it's time for caution."
Xieren's pulse quickened, a knot forming in his stomach. Fen knew more than he let on. Xieren felt a sudden urge to tell him everything, to seek comfort in the older man's strength, but fear silenced him once more. Fen was right—Darek would be vigilant, ruthless, looking for any excuse.
That night, Xieren and Elia worked in tense, desperate silence. Her hands trembled as the golden sphere floated unsteadily between her palms. Sweat beaded on her forehead, exhaustion evident in every trembling breath. Xieren watched the shadows around them, hyper-aware, anxiety gnawing at his gut.
Then he heard it—a faint, unmistakable sound: footsteps.
"Stop," he whispered urgently.
Elia extinguished the glow immediately, plunging them into darkness. He grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the rubble, hearts pounding in unison. The footsteps came closer, boots crunching lightly on ash and stone.
From their hiding place, they saw a figure pause, lantern raised. The soft glow illuminated a familiar broad frame: Fen.
Xieren's heart sank with a mixture of relief and dread. Fen stood motionless for a long moment, then turned away slowly, vanishing into the night without a word.
When silence finally returned, Elia released a shaky breath. "He knows."
Xieren closed his eyes, the truth heavy upon him. "Yes. He knows."
Elia's grip tightened on his hand, the only anchor they had left.
"What do we do now?"
"We hope," Xieren whispered softly, feeling the terrible weight of that word.
"We hope Fen's love for us is stronger than his fear."
They sat hidden in the shadows for a long time afterward, holding onto each other tightly, two desperate figures beneath the cold sky. Around them, the world lay still, holding its breath, waiting.