Not a Damsel in Distress!

Saryel lit the morning incense with trembling fingers.

She hadn't meant to linger in the temple's inner chamber so long, but something about the silence wouldn't let her leave. The air was heavy, as if it remembered something she hadn't said yet. The flames didn't dance like they usually did. They flickered once, twice—and held steady, unmoving, as though even they were waiting.

She stared into their still glow and whispered, "Why can't I reach him?"

No divine answer came. Only the sound of her own breath, brittle in the hush.

She folded her hands, not in prayer, but in frustration.

Was this her punishment? For walking away from her heart to wear the robes of duty? For saying no to a bond that once felt holy, simply because it didn't fit into the prophecy?

She had always trusted the will of the light.

But the light hadn't seen Ramiel's eyes lately.

Hadn't watched them dim.

---

Ramiel didn't remember when he'd last eaten properly. Or slept fully.

He wandered the temple corridors, arms folded tightly over his chest like he could hold himself together if he just clenched hard enough.

The world had taken on a faded tint—too bright in the mornings, too loud in the afternoons, too quiet at night. It was like walking through a dream someone else had designed.

Sometimes he forgot where he was going.

Sometimes he found himself pausing outside Saryel's chambers, breath caught, before forcing himself to keep walking.

He didn't knock. He didn't go in.

He didn't deserve to.

---

He swung his staff like a man trying to beat back a voice no one else could hear.

The sparring ring was empty—just stone underfoot and a breeze overhead. Ramiel moved with sharp, snapping motions, sweat stinging his eyes.

He didn't hear Alaric approach until the man's voice cut clean through the air.

"I swear to the stars, if you break your wrist again I'm not helping you bind it."

Ramiel halted, chest heaving.

Alaric didn't smile. Not this time.

He crossed the distance slowly, eyes scanning Ramiel's face. "You've been off for days. I tried joking it away, tried waiting it out. But now I'm done pretending I don't see it."

Ramiel looked away.

"Alaric—"

"What's going on?" Alaric pressed. "You barely eat, barely sleep, and you flinch like someone's watching you all the time. Is something following you?"

Ramiel's lips parted. A shadow flickered at the edge of his thoughts.

"Nothing's following me," he lied.

Alaric stepped in close. "Then what the hell is it?"

"I don't—" Ramiel stopped. Swallowed hard. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." Alaric's voice cracked. "You think I don't know when you're slipping? You think I don't remember how you get when you bottle everything? I've seen you break before. Don't make me watch it happen again."

Ramiel's jaw tightened. "You wouldn't understand."

Alaric stared at him, stunned. "Try me."

There was a long silence.

Ramiel looked down at his hands. "What if I told you… something spoke to me?"

Alaric blinked. "Spoke to you?"

"A presence," Ramiel whispered. "A voice. In the garden. It—it offered me something. It knew what I wanted."

Alaric's expression shifted—confusion, worry, and something close to fear. "Ramiel… have you told anyone else?"

"No," he said, too quickly. "I can't. It sounds mad."

"You don't have to believe something to be in danger from it." Alaric took a step back, voice rising. "You think it's just whispers? What happens when it wants more? When it decides you owe it something?"

"I didn't accept anything!" Ramiel snapped.

"But you didn't walk away either, did you?" Alaric's voice dropped again. "You're still listening."

Ramiel turned his back. "You should go."

"Ram—"

"I said go, Alaric."

The silence that followed was worse than shouting.

Eventually, Alaric left without another word.

---

The lilies in the garden weren't glowing.

Saryel noticed it the moment she stepped onto the stone path. Their golden edges had dimmed to dull yellow, and a few petals lay fallen—curled and brittle in the dirt.

She walked slowly, carefully, the hem of her robe whispering across the ground.

When she reached the old tree—the one with Ramiel's sigil carved into its bark—she placed her palm against it.

It pulsed.

Faintly. But undeniably warm beneath her skin.

She frowned. Magic shouldn't linger there. The ward had been carved in devotion, not power.

And yet...

She knelt beside the roots. The earth felt disturbed.

Something had stood here. Recently.

She looked up at the sky, a chill threading down her spine. "What have you touched, Ramiel?"

---

He didn't go back to the garden.

But he stood by the window again.

The room was quiet. The moon was soft. The wind stirred the curtains, gentle and disarming.

But Ramiel knew better.

He felt the pulse under his skin, the thrum of something unseen waiting in the stillness.

He knew the path back to that tree. Knew every step.

He could go now. Just walk. Just ask.

Just—

"Whatever your heart desires."

His fingers curled into fists.

And this time, he didn't whisper be gone.

He whispered, "What would I have to give?"

No answer.

Just silence.

And the faintest curl of mist over the edge of the wall, brushing past his ankle like a promise.