I wasn't sure how to take it all in.
Memories from my childhood flickered through my mind—the hunger, the thirst, the ache of giving up—until that sharp poke broke through the haze.
Raiden.
My captor. The man I was supposed to hate. The one I was trying so hard not to feel anything for.
And the boy who had once handed me a flask of lemonade when I was starving in the streets.
They were the same person.
The realization hit like a blade to the chest.
The day that had given me the strength to keep going had destroyed him. The moment that saved me had shattered him beyond repair.
And all this time, while I had carried the memory of kindness, he had been drowning in guilt—believing himself a monster, carrying that unbearable weight alone for years.
He wasn't angry at the world.
He was angry at himself.
He had killed. Many, many people. He had become ruthless, feared—not because he was cruel, but because he thought that was all he could ever be. He believed he had no choice but to become the monster they already saw.
But that couldn't have been further from the truth.
Right now, lying beside me, he wasn't the Lightning Prince. He wasn't the weapon forged by grief. He was just a boy who had lost his mother in the worst way imaginable. And worse—he thought it was his fault.
My heart ached for him. For the years he'd spent believing that lie.
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That he wasn't a monster. That he was good. I wanted to tear away every layer of guilt and make him see what I saw when I looked at him. But I knew words alone couldn't undo years of self-hatred.
So instead, I smiled softly and brushed my fingers along his cheek.
"You're no monster, Raiden," I whispered, wiping away the last traces of his tears. "Not to me."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze searching mine like he was trying to find the lie in my words. But there wasn't one.
"I may be a little drunk right now," I said with a small, shaky laugh, "but that doesn't change how I feel about you."
Leaning forward, I pressed a feather-light kiss over each of his closed eyes, as if I could somehow kiss away the pain he'd carried for so long.
"I care about you, Rai," I murmured. "More than I want to admit, even to myself. Since the day we met, you've been annoying, cocky, insufferable—"
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, please, go on."
I caught his chin, gently turning his face back toward me. "You've also been brave. And smart. And protective. And strong. Everyone has darkness in them, Raiden. But you are not your darkness." My voice softened. "You are your light."
Something flickered in his eyes then—a small crack in the armor he'd worn for so long.
"The Raiden you've shown me," I continued, "isn't a monster at all. He's a beautiful soul. Just like his mother." My throat tightened. "Hells, you saved me when I was just a poor orphan dying in the streets."
He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "Technically, I arrested you."
I smirked. "I meant when I was much younger. Thirteen years, seventeen weeks, and three days ago, to be exact."
His body went still. His breath caught. "What?"
Raiden stared at me, silver-blue eyes wide, searching my face for the lie he couldn't find. For the first time since I'd met him, he looked unguarded. Vulnerable.
"You…" His voice was barely a whisper.
I drew in a steadying breath. "I was that little girl you gave the lemonade to, Rai." My voice trembled, but the words came out steady. "You saved me that day. Gave me the strength to keep going. You did that." I held his gaze. "And since meeting you again, you've kept doing it. Whether you realize it or not."
He looked utterly stunned, as though the world had just tilted beneath him.
I ran my fingers through his dark hair, soft and warm beneath my hand. "You are so much more than what you think you are, Raiden. I just wish you could see it the way I do." My throat tightened. "It was you, Raiden. You saved me that day."
His brows drew together, emotions flashing across his face too fast to name—disbelief, realization, sorrow, something raw and fragile that made my chest ache.
"Lyra…" His hand lifted, hesitating midair, as if he was afraid I'd vanish if he touched me.
I reached first, pressing his palm against my cheek, grounding him. "I never forgot that kindness," I said softly. "That was the first time in my life someone made me feel like I mattered. You did that. Not a monster. Not a killer. You."
He swallowed hard, his throat working, his eyes glimmering in the firelight.
For years, he'd carried this weight, this belief that he was only destruction. But he wasn't. He had been my light when I had nothing—and if I could, I'd be his now.
"You are no monster, Rai," I whispered, voice trembling. "You never will be. Not to me."
His breathing was uneven, his gaze locked on mine like I was the only thing anchoring him to the world. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he leaned in, resting his forehead against mine.
"I don't know how to believe that," he admitted, voice breaking.
"Then let me believe it for you."
Silence stretched between us—soft, fragile, infinite. Only the crackle of the fire filled the space, warm against the chill of what we'd both confessed.
And then, in the faintest voice, Raiden whispered, "Okay."
It wasn't a grand declaration.
It wasn't a promise that he would suddenly see himself the way I did.
But it was a start.
And right now, that was enough.
I held him.
I didn't speak. Didn't try to fix it or fill the silence with empty reassurances. I just curled into him, letting my warmth bleed into his, letting him know—without words—that he wasn't alone anymore.
For a long time, neither of us moved.
Then I felt it—his exhale. Slow. Shaky. Like a man who had been holding his breath for years and was finally letting it go.
"Get some sleep, Rai," I whispered, pressing my forehead to his.
He didn't answer, but his arm slid around me, pulling me closer until our breaths fell in rhythm.
And as I listened to the steady beat of his heart, I made a silent vow:
One day, I would make him see the truth.
That he was never the monster he believed himself to be.
I expected to wake wrapped in Raiden's warmth, both of us still tangled together after everything that had been said—after everything that had shifted between us. For a fleeting moment, I thought maybe—just maybe—things would be different.
Instead, I woke up alone.
And with a headache that felt like a hammer pounding behind my eyes.
Groaning, I rolled over, reaching toward the empty space beside me. The sheets were cool. He'd been gone for a while.
Of course, he had.
I sighed, rubbing at my temples before forcing myself out of bed. I wasn't sure what I expected, but waking up alone left an ache in my chest I didn't want to examine too closely.
I got dressed, splashed water on my face, and followed the smell of food downstairs to the tavern.
Revik and Muir were already at a table, plates piled high in front of them.
Without hesitation, I leaned over Revik, stole a piece of bacon off his plate, and dropped into the chair beside him.
He let out a low, miserable groan but didn't argue—probably too hungover to fight me for it.
Muir, of course, was insufferably chipper.
"Well, well, well," he said far too loudly, flashing me a grin. "How are we feeling this fine morning?"
Revik and I groaned in unison, rubbing our temples.
"Shh," I hissed, squinting at him. "Gods, Muir, have some mercy."
"I second that," Revik muttered, slumping further into his chair.
Muir just smirked. "You'll survive."
"Barely," I grumbled.
And then—
"Ahh, the drunken duo has awoken," came a smooth, familiar voice from behind me.
I turned.
Raiden approached, calm as ever, two plates balanced effortlessly in his hands. He set one in front of me before sliding into the seat across the table.
Then, with that soft, infuriating smile that sent warmth curling through me, he said,
"Good morning, my little thief."
My heart stopped at the word my.
It was such a small word, but it hit harder than any lightning bolt he could summon. My pulse stuttered, heat creeping up my neck. I told myself it was just the hangover, the exhaustion… but I knew better.
He said it so casually, like it meant nothing.
But to me, it meant everything.
The way his voice wrapped around it—low, rough, almost tender—made it sound like a claim. And for a terrifying, wonderful second, I wanted it to be one.