The morning mist clung to the trees like a veil of silver, softening the scars left by last night's battle.
Lyra walked a few paces behind Ren, watching the faint trail of light that still shimmered faintly across his back—remnants of the star energy that refused to fade.
He moved slower than usual, favoring his injured side.
She noticed. He probably thought she didn't.
"Ren," she called softly.
He didn't turn. "You should save your breath. We still have a long way before the next safe zone."
"You're bleeding again."
He paused, glancing down at his side, where the bandage had darkened. "It'll stop soon."
Lyra frowned. "You said that hours ago."
Ren exhaled through his nose, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his exhaustion. "And it did. Then it started again."
She stepped closer, forcing him to stop. "Sit down."
"Lyra—"
"Sit," she repeated, eyes firm.
Something in her tone—half command, half concern—made him obey without another word. He lowered himself onto a fallen log, grimacing slightly as she knelt before him.
The early sunlight caught in her hair, weaving strands of gold between the black and silver of the forest. He looked away before he could stare too long.
She unwrapped the bandage carefully, fingers light but precise. The wound glowed faintly where his power had burned through skin. It wasn't just blood—it was starlight leaking from the cracks.
Lyra's breath caught. "You're hurting yourself again, aren't you?"
Ren's voice softened. "That's how this power works. It takes as much as it gives."
Her brows knitted together. "Then it's killing you."
He chuckled, low and rough. "Not yet."
"Don't joke about that," she said sharply, and he blinked—surprised by the tremor in her voice.
She pressed her hand against his side, and the faint warmth of her own energy seeped into him.
Ren felt the ache ease slightly, the pain dulling into something bearable.
He looked at her, really looked—and for a moment, the forest faded.
"You shouldn't waste your strength," he murmured. "You'll need it."
"I'll recover," she said quietly. "You won't, if I don't."
Their eyes met—hers fierce, his weary but stubborn.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the hum of life in the woods and the faint echo of their heartbeats.
Ren reached up slowly, his hand brushing a leaf from her hair.
"You shouldn't care this much," he said softly. "It'll make everything harder."
Lyra held his gaze. "Too late."
The simplicity of her answer hit him harder than any wound.
He wanted to tell her not to say things like that. That their world didn't allow feelings like this. That he couldn't afford to be distracted by warmth when the darkness of the Empire still hunted them.
But her hand lingered on his skin, and his resolve trembled.
He looked away first. "You're reckless."
"I learned from the best," she said, a small, tired smile on her lips.
Ren almost smiled back. Almost.
They rested under the shade for a while longer, the air between them heavy with things neither dared to say.
When they finally stood again, Lyra adjusted her cloak and offered him her hand.
"Come on," she said. "Before the day catches up."
Ren hesitated, then took her hand—not out of weakness, but out of something deeper. Something that scared him far more than the beasts of the wild.
They walked together through the sunlight filtering between the trees, their hands brushing every few steps, their silence saying everything their words couldn't.
But the peace didn't last.
A raven's cry echoed overhead, too sharp, too deliberate.
Ren froze, eyes narrowing. "Scout bird. Imperial-trained."
Lyra's stomach dropped. "They found us?"
"Not yet," he said, scanning the canopy. "But they will."
He let go of her hand reluctantly. "Stay close. We'll have to move through the river this time—it'll hide our scent."
"Ren," she said softly, before he could move. "Promise me something."
He turned, brow furrowing. "What?"
"That you'll stop acting like you're alone."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly—
"I'll try."
The river cut through the forest like a ribbon of silver, its surface glittering under slivers of sunlight. The current was strong, cold, and merciless—but it was also their only chance.
Ren crouched near the water's edge, scanning the sky.
The raven was still circling high above, its shadow slicing across the trees.
"They'll send trackers next," he muttered. "We have minutes, maybe less."
Lyra's breath came uneven. "You said the river could hide us."
"It will," Ren said, stripping off his cloak and tossing it aside. "But you'll need to stay close."
Her cheeks warmed despite the chill wind. "Close how close?"
Ren looked over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Close enough to breathe when I do."
Before she could respond, he stepped into the river. The water surged against his legs, freezing even to someone of his strength.
He turned back to her, eyes soft but commanding. "Lyra. Now."
She hesitated only a second before wading in. The cold hit like a blade, cutting through her skin and lungs. But when she stumbled, Ren's hand shot out, steadying her instantly.
His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him as they lowered into the deeper current. The shock of contact stole her breath. His warmth, his heartbeat—it all drowned out the world for a moment.
"Hold on to me," he said, voice low.
Her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt. "You don't have to tell me twice."
They slipped beneath the surface just as the first scouts arrived on the opposite bank.
From below, the river roared in their ears. Ren's aura flickered faintly around them, bending the light to hide their shapes. Lyra pressed closer, her forehead against his shoulder, her heart pounding against his chest.
She could feel every beat. Every breath he took.
The cold bit into her bones, but his touch burned.
Above them, the silhouettes of soldiers crossed the riverbank—dark shapes scanning the forest, unaware of the two souls hiding just beneath the current.
Lyra dared not move, dared not breathe.
Ren's hand slid to the back of her neck, steadying her. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from restraint. The moment stretched, fragile and infinite.
When the footsteps faded, Ren surfaced first, pulling Lyra up with him. They gasped for air, their breaths breaking the silence like lightning.
Lyra wiped the water from her face, shivering. "We… we made it."
Ren's eyes softened. "Barely."
He reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek.
His touch lingered longer than it should have. The look in his eyes wasn't the cold, distant calm of a warrior—it was something warmer. Something that scared him.
"Lyra," he said quietly, "you shouldn't have followed me this far."
She met his gaze, unflinching. "Then you shouldn't have made me care."
His breath caught. For a heartbeat, the forest and river disappeared again—only her voice remained, trembling but certain.
The tension between them snapped like a drawn bowstring released.
Ren leaned forward before he could stop himself, his forehead resting against hers. Their noses almost brushed, their breaths mingling in the cool air.
He didn't kiss her. He couldn't. But the moment carried the weight of one.
"Every time I try to keep you safe," he whispered, "you pull me closer to danger."
Lyra smiled faintly, her lips barely moving. "Then stop trying."
For the first time, Ren laughed—soft, raw, real. The sound of it made Lyra's chest tighten.
They stayed there for a long while, sitting in the shallows of the river, the water whispering around them like forgotten words.
When they finally stood, the sun had begun to set again, painting the sky in gold and violet.
Ren offered his hand silently. She took it without hesitation.
Their journey resumed, but the distance between them was gone.
They no longer walked as fugitives bound by fate—but as something closer, something uncertain and precious.
Something that neither prophecy nor empire could easily destroy.