Morlith's strength ebbed with each step down the hall. The faint shimmer of his aura stuttered and broke, a candle guttering in its own smoke. Kieran stayed close enough to catch him if he fell.
"You need to rest," he murmured.
"I require no—" Morlith's protest ended in a short gasp as his vision dimmed. Kieran slid an arm around his waist, guiding him before pride could gather itself again.
"Just for a while," Kieran said. "Until your power steadies."
Reluctantly, Morlith let himself be led into the bedroom. He sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. After centuries sealed in stone and paint, the softness felt wrong—dangerously human.
Kieran crouched beside him, worry softening his voice. "You burned too much energy when you bound the diary. You're exhausted."
"I do not fatigue as mortals do," Morlith said, but the words lacked conviction.
Kieran smiled faintly. "Then humor me." He pressed lightly on Morlith's shoulder until the ancient being lay back against the pillows.
For a long moment neither spoke. The curtains swayed, sunlight tracing slow patterns across the floorboards. Beneath that light, Morlith's face looked less like marble and more like life.
"I will remain," Kieran said quietly, settling beside him. "If you slip into one of those… power lapses, someone should be here."
"You would watch a creature you fear?"
"I stopped fearing you the moment you spared me."
Morlith's lips curved in something not quite a smile. He closed his eyes. The hum of power that usually surrounded him thinned to almost nothing. For the first time since his awakening, the house itself grew still.
Kieran lay beside him, careful not to touch. Minutes stretched; sunlight crept higher. When Morlith's breathing slowed, Kieran finally exhaled and let the tension ease from his shoulders.
A lock of hair fell across Morlith's forehead. Kieran hesitated only a heartbeat before brushing it back. His fingers lingered on the cool skin, tracing the edge of a temple, the slope of a cheekbone. Morlith didn't stir.
Inside, the ancient's mind stirred with a question older than his prison. Why do I allow this? Why does his touch quiet the storm? He tried to summon fire—anger, defense—but nothing came. Only warmth. Only calm.
He opened his eyes.
Kieran's hand still rested against his brow; their gazes locked. Neither moved. The sunlight between them thickened until it felt tangible.
Kieran's throat worked. "Are you in pain?"
Morlith's voice was a whisper. "I… do not know what this is."
"Then we'll find out together."
Kieran leaned in, slow enough for refusal. When Morlith didn't move, he closed the distance. For an instant the world hushed; even the floor seemed to hold its breath.
Morlith's power, so often a roar beneath his skin, went silent. A warmth spread through him that he had not felt since his immortal heart had last beaten.
Two heartbeats passed. Then realization struck like lightning.
Morlith jerked back, eyes flaring gold rimmed in red. "Enough." The word rippled through the room, shaking dust from the beams. Power flared from his palms; the light overhead shattered, scattering sparks like fireflies.
Kieran stumbled back on the bed, hands raised. "Morlith—"
"Do not speak my name!" The air thickened, vibrating with raw force. Curtains whipped against the windows; shadows curled up the walls like smoke. In one blinding pulse of crimson light, Morlith vanished.
He materialized in the garden, the sudden stillness deafening after the storm inside. Sunlight drenched the overgrown roses; their petals quivered, folding inward as his aura scraped them. The fountain beside him stilled, water flattening under invisible weight.
Morlith gripped the stone rim until cracks spread beneath his fingers. Fool. Weak. You let him touch you.
The air around him cooled. The sky above dimmed slightly, clouds edging toward gray. Tiny red motes drifted from the soil—his power leaking uncontrolled.
Why did I not destroy him? Why does the memory of his touch burn instead of repulse?
The wind rose, carrying a whisper of his own magic back to him. He tried to shape it into anger, but it returned as ache. The roses closed tighter, their color deepening to blood-red.
Then the garden changed. The light around him shifted gold, bending, swirling. A shape formed within it—tall, broad-shouldered, a silhouette of remembered warmth. His father. The air smelled of ash and rain.
Morlith froze.
The figure's voice was not sound but resonance, sliding directly into his mind.
"Do not fear the one who stills your wrath, my son. Fear the part of you that denies the heart's will."
Morlith's lips parted. "Father—"
The vision shimmered, edges unraveling like smoke in wind. For a moment the golden light flared bright enough to turn the world white. Then it was gone, leaving only the whisper of falling ash and the faint toll of something like a distant bell.
He stood alone again. The garden exhaled. The roses opened. The sky brightened as though nothing had happened.
Morlith pressed a hand over his heart. His pulse was faster than it should be. Power and emotion twisted together, impossible to separate.
What are you doing to me, Kieran Fallowridge?
He looked toward the estate. Through the upper windows he could still sense the faint trace of Kieran's presence—steady, unafraid. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
In the bedroom the aftermath of magic lingered: shattered bulbs, curtains trembling, a faint scent of ozone. Kieran sat where Morlith had left him, the sunlight warming his face. He could still feel the echo—a mixture of awe and heartbreak.
He drew a slow breath, then another, until his pulse steadied. His fingers rose to his lips, brushing them as if to be sure it had happened.
"Morlith… I'm sorry." he whispered, the name fragile and full of wonder.
The house gave a faint sigh, floorboards settling, almost like a heartbeat beneath his feet.
Outside, far in the garden, something answered—a low thrum, neither threat nor welcome. The estate, alive with old magic, seemed to recognize what had changed between them and waited to see what would come of it.
Kieran lay back on the bed, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, and let the silence wrap around him. He could still sense Morlith's aura—distant, flickering, but not angry. That was enough.
He smiled, small and hopeful. "You'll come back."
Because somehow, he knew the truth: Morlith always returned to the place where his power fell silent.