The afternoon light was soft by the time they left the Solarium Tower.
Golden rays streamed through the arched windows, turning the dust in the corridor into slow-drifting constellations. Illyen walked as if his body were made of glass, each movement deliberate, fragile. The world felt too bright, too real. Every sound—the whisper of his robes, the echo of their footsteps—rang inside his skull like distant bells.
Cael walked beside him in silence. His composure, so carefully held for years, trembled beneath the surface. He wanted to reach out again, to steady Illyen, but something in Illyen's expression—raw, exhausted, luminous—stopped him. This was Illyen finding his way back to himself. Cael would not break that fragile return with unnecessary words.
The hall opened into the western corridor, lined with portraits. Most were of forgotten kings and scholars, their gazes eternal and cold. Illyen slowed when he reached one painting in particular: a boy seated by a table strewn with charts and scrolls, a quill poised midair. The boy's eyes were bright with curiosity, his smile small but genuine.
"Who… is he?" Illyen asked, though his voice faltered halfway through. Deep inside, he already knew.
Cael's answer was soft. "You, Illyen. The archivists painted you when you completed your first star map. You insisted it was imperfect."
Illyen's lips parted slightly. The boy's face was younger, untouched by fear or sorrow, yet the same in ways words couldn't explain. He reached out and almost touched the frame. "I remember the quill," he whispered. "It kept staining my fingers."
Cael's throat tightened. "You said the ink reminded you of the night sky."
Illyen's gaze flickered toward him. "And you… told me the stars would forgive me if I drew them wrong."
Cael looked away for a moment, blinking against the sudden sting in his eyes. "I meant it."
They stood there for a while, two figures suspended between past and present, the portrait watching silently. Then Elara's voice drifted from down the corridor.
"There you are. Come, my lord," she said gently. "You've done enough for today. The Tower takes from the living what it once held for the dead."
Her words startled him back into motion. Illyen let her guide him through the familiar turns of the royal house. The air changed as they entered the eastern wing—warmer, scented faintly of herbs and beeswax. His steps grew heavier. The adrenaline of remembering had faded, leaving behind a hollow fatigue.
"You should rest," Elara said, ushering him into a sunlit room. "Sleep will settle what memory cannot."
Cael hesitated in the doorway, unsure whether to follow.
Illyen turned to him, his expression unreadable. "Stay," he said quietly.
It was a simple word, but Cael felt it like a vow. He nodded, stepping inside.
Elara drew the curtains halfway, softening the light, and set a cup of tea on the bedside table. "It will help," she said. "Chamomile and sage. For peace." Her eyes lingered on Cael. "And for patience."
When she left, the room fell into the kind of stillness that hummed rather than silenced. Cael stood by the window for a long time, watching the garden below—the magnolia tree swaying, its blossoms scattering pale petals on the stone path. Illyen sat on the edge of the bed, the cup untouched in his hands.
"It feels strange," Illyen said finally. "To remember something that no one else believes ever happened. To live twice inside one body."
Cael turned toward him. "It isn't strange to me."
Illyen's lips curved faintly. "No. I suppose not." He took a small sip of the tea, his hands trembling slightly. "It's not all back. There are still… pieces missing. Faces I can't place. A voice crying my name, but I don't know if it's yours or mine."
"You don't have to rush," Cael said, crossing the room. "You found the first thread. The rest will follow when you're ready."
Illyen looked up at him. "And if I'm not ready?"
"Then I'll wait." Cael's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him. "I told you before, didn't I? Even if it takes a hundred lifetimes."
Illyen's breath caught. The weight of that promise settled between them, tender and terrifying. He set the cup aside, then lay down slowly, as if every muscle remembered another exhaustion from long ago. The moment his head touched the pillow, he felt the room tilt, the world becoming hazy at the edges.
Cael pulled a chair beside the bed and sat, his gloved hands folded loosely on his lap. He did not speak, only watched. The candlelight softened Illyen's face, chasing the pallor from his skin, turning him almost ethereal.
"Do you ever sleep?" Illyen murmured, eyes half-closed.
"Rarely."
"You should," Illyen said, a sleepy smile ghosting across his lips. "You look… tired. Even eternity must rest."
Cael's laugh was quiet, a breath more than sound. "Perhaps now I can."
Illyen's gaze fluttered, his voice slipping into the drowsy rhythm of dreams. "You waited so long."
"I would again," Cael whispered, but Illyen was already gone to sleep.
The night deepened. Time stretched, fluid and slow. Cael remained where he was, unwilling to leave the fragile peace that had finally returned. He thought of all the years he had stood in silence, praying to gods who never answered, clinging to a promise only he remembered. And now—finally—Illyen's voice had spoken that promise back into existence.
A breeze slipped through the half-open window, carrying the scent of magnolia. It stirred the candle flame, casting a golden shimmer across Illyen's hair. Cael reached out, hesitant, and brushed one pale strand from his forehead. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent.
Illyen stirred but did not wake. His breathing was slow, even.
Cael sat back and closed his eyes.
When dawn came, the world was washed in pale gold. Elara entered quietly, carrying a tray of fresh tea and bread. She froze when she saw them—Illyen asleep, Cael still in the chair, his cloak draped over Illyen's blanket like a silent guardian.
Her stern expression softened. She set the tray down and whispered, "You'll undo yourself for him."
Cael's eyes opened, calm and tired. "I already did. Long ago."
Elara said nothing more. She moved to the window, letting in the morning air. "He will remember more soon," she murmured. "But not all at once. You must be patient, Highness."
"I've had lifetimes of practice," Cael said quietly.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded, leaving them to the soft morning light.
Illyen stirred soon after. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused, then found Cael beside him. For a heartbeat, he looked disoriented—caught between dreams and waking—but then recognition dawned, gentle as sunlight.
"You're still here," he said.
Cael smiled faintly. "Where else would I go?"
Illyen's answering smile was small, tired, but real. "Good."
He sat up slowly, the blanket falling away from his shoulders. Outside, the magnolia tree was blooming again, its petals scattered like pale stars across the ground. Illyen looked toward it, his voice barely a whisper.
"There's still more to remember, isn't there?"
"Yes," Cael said, his tone soft but certain. "But not today."
Illyen nodded, his gaze steady now. "Then tomorrow."
For the first time in centuries, Cael allowed himself to hope without fear.
The thread gleamed faintly between them, invisible but unbroken.