Not a Damsel in Distress!

Ramiel froze.

The voice had slithered across his spine like smoke wrapped in silk, soft but weighted.

"I can help you."

He turned in place, eyes darting through the moonlit garden. Nothing but stone paths, trembling leaves, and distant fireflies. But then—a flicker. A shadow where no shadow should've been. It pulsed faintly, coiling behind the trees.

"I can help you. With whatever your heart desires. It will be yours."

Ramiel stepped back, his hand instinctively going to the small blade at his belt.

"Show yourself."

Nothing moved. But the air thickened.

"That maiden will never choose another over you. Not if you accept."

His chest tightened. The mist swirled at the base of the tree, almost like it was watching him.

Ramiel's jaw clenched. "Be gone. Creature of the dark. I need no help from the likes of you."

The garden dimmed slightly as if the moon recoiled. The mist didn't move.

"Suit yourself," the voice whispered, almost amused. "But your heart will find its way back to me. They always do."

He spun away, storming back through the temple gates, trying to still his racing pulse. The silence that followed was heavier than the voice had been.

---

He slept poorly.

Tossed between half-dreams and the echo of that voice. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Saryel walking away, golden robes brushing the floor, her face distant. And beneath that image—the mist.

In the morning, the sun filtered through pale curtains. He sat on the edge of his bed, groggy, lips dry.

His fingers curled into the bedsheets.

Why couldn't he forget the voice?

---

Later, he met Alaric near the sparring ring outside the east hall. A few acolytes practiced nearby, blades clinking, feet shuffling on the stone.

"Hey," Alaric greeted. "You look like something gnawed on your face all night."

Ramiel attempted a smirk. "Didn't sleep well."

"No kidding." Alaric handed him a practice staff. "Too many dreams about our ever-elusive priestess?"

Ramiel deflected with a chuckle, twirling the staff absently. "Something like that."

They started a slow spar—measured, familiar movements. The kind that came from years of knowing each other's rhythms.

But Ramiel's steps were off.

"You're distracted," Alaric pointed out.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

Ramiel stopped mid-motion, staff hanging limp in his hands.

Alaric lowered his own. "Seriously. Is something wrong?"

Ramiel looked away. "Just... thoughts. Nothing dangerous."

Alaric didn't push, but his silence said he didn't buy it.

---

That evening, the trio met again. Saryel arrived with soft steps, her robe catching faint sunlight as she entered the old garden they used to frequent. The flowers here had bloomed again, golden lilies and glowing violets curving toward her like they remembered her scent.

Ramiel and Alaric were already there.

There was an awkward moment—a stillness between old friends now uncertain of their closeness.

Saryel broke it.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice light but sincere. "I didn't mean to choose duty over you. I never meant for it to feel like that."

Alaric smiled first. "We know."

Ramiel hesitated, then stepped forward. "I said things I shouldn't have. You're doing what you were meant to. I get that."

She looked at him, eyes gentle. "I'm still me, Ramiel. That hasn't changed."

He held her gaze, searching for some crack, some piece of her that might belong to him again.

"I know," he whispered. "I just... missed my friend."

She stepped forward and hugged him. He didn't expect it, but he melted into the gesture, wrapping his arms around her tightly. Alaric joined the embrace after a second, shaking his head fondly.

It felt right. For a moment.

---

But later, when Ramiel was alone, staring out his window into the night, the memory of the voice returned.

"Whatever your heart desires..."

His chest ached.

He wasn't evil. He didn't want power or pain.

He just wanted what they had before. When she laughed with them. Walked beside them. Belonged with them.

But she was drifting further.

Even if she didn't mean to.

He clenched his jaw.

"Be gone," he whispered to the night again.

No answer.

Just the quiet rustle of mist curling along the garden paths far below.

Waiting.