The storm had cleared. The ocean lay still, its restless rage tamed to a glassy expanse that mirrored the soft pinks and golds of dawn. The waves, once wild and hungry, now lapped at the shore with an almost reverent hush. The sky, streaked with delicate warmth, looked almost innocent—as if it hadn’t just witnessed the violence of the night before. The salty tang of the sea still clung to the air, sharp and clean, but there was no trace of the storm's fury, only the faint scent of damp earth where the rain had darkened the soil.

  The gulls were the first to return. They circled lazily overhead, their cries sharp and distant, gliding over the bruised horizon. Nearby, the remnants of their fire still smoldered—a dull orange ember barely visible beneath the ashen remnants. The faint scent of charred driftwood lingered in the crisp morning air.

  It should have felt like an ending. But something inside him rebelled against it.

  Shadow sat by the fire's remains, his back slightly hunched, absently running his blade along the edge of a flint stone, though it needed no sharpening. His fingers moved with idle, practiced precision, but his eyes were elsewhere. On her.

  Seraphine sat by the water’s edge, her knees drawn up loosely, arms looped around them as she gazed over the horizon. Her gown, torn at the hem from their journey, pooled around her in careless folds, the fabric stained with salt and dirt. She had slipped off her boots, leaving them carelessly abandoned in the sand. Her bare feet pressed into the cool, damp earth, toes half-buried in the scattered shards of shell and sea-smoothed stone.

  The wind stirred her hair, tugging free strands of dark gold and sending them drifting across her face like windblown silk. She made no move to push them back, too lost in the quiet to care. The rising sun caught in the lighter strands, turning them almost amber.

  Shadow let himself watch her. Memorize her.

  The curve of her cheek when she turned slightly. The way her lips parted faintly when she exhaled, as though she might say something but chose against it. The soft line of her throat, bare and delicate in the morning light, her pulse faintly visible just below her jaw.

  His grip on the blade tightened—imperceptibly.

  She didn’t look at him, but she felt him watching.

  They didn’t speak much as they broke their fast. When he passed her a strip of dried meat, his fingers brushed hers—a brief touch, lingering just a beat too long. When she reached for her water flask, he tugged it from his belt without a word, holding it out to her. Their hands met again. Fingers grazing. Neither pulling away.

  When he reached to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, his knuckles traced her cheekbone, the callouses catching slightly against her skin. His fingers lingered. Too slow. Too careful. But he let them fall away with deliberate indifference, as though it had meant nothing at all.

  He didn’t ask her to stay. But he made excuses to prolong the morning.

  He deliberately took his time packing their supplies, suddenly meticulous with every tie and fastening. His hands, usually swift and economical, lingered over every knot, every buckle, as though the act of leaving could somehow be unraveled.

  He insisted on scouting the rocky edge for a clearer path, even though they both knew the trail hadn’t changed. When she knelt by the water to rinse her hands, he crouched beside her, filling their waterskins from the gentle current. The proximity was unnecessary—they could have taken turns. He stayed close anyway.

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  Then she said it.

  They sat side by side on a flat outcrop of stone, the warmth of the sun just beginning to cut through the lingering chill. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, the surface fractured into glimmering pieces by the morning light.

  Her voice was light, almost teasing, though she kept her eyes on the horizon.

  “My family is still determined to send me to a foreign noble,” she murmured.

  She gave a short, breathless laugh, as if the absurdity of it amused her. But her eyes slid sideways, searching his profile. Measuring. Testing. Would you want to keep me if I had the choice?

  She didn’t ask it out loud, but the question clung to the edge of her voice, barely hidden beneath the casual words.

  For a heartbeat, he stilled.

  Shadow only heard the inevitability in her tone. Duty. Obligation. A reminder that she could never be his. That she had been bound to another long before their paths had crossed.

  Something closed inside him. The warmth lingering in his eyes hardened. The hand he had been resting loosely on his knee curled slightly, fingers flexing once, twice, before going still.

  Without a word, he stood.

  He turned away from her, moving back toward their small camp. He tore down the campsite with quiet, brutal efficiency. His movements were swift, methodical—the tenderness from moments before gone, replaced by mechanical precision. The sudden brutality of his silence was louder than any words.

  She stared after him, confusion tightening in her throat. But pride bit at her tongue, holding her silent.

  The terrain shifted as they walked—the soft, sandy path gave way to uneven ground. The trail narrowed as it wound along the rocky edge, forcing them to pick their way carefully over loose gravel and uneven stone.

  She was too distracted—watching the tension in his shoulders, the way he walked ahead without once looking back. Her boot slid on a patch of loose scree. Her ankle twisted sharply, and before she could catch herself, she fell.

  Her hands slammed against the jagged stone, the rough edge slicing into her palm. Pain jolted up her arm, sharp and bright. The ground scraped her knees, and she felt the burn of torn skin beneath her ripped leggings.

  “Seraphine!”

  He was beside her in an instant. No hesitation. His hands found her, solid and steady, gripping her shoulders and easing her upright.

  “Let me see.” His voice was low, barely more than a rasp.

  She tried to wave him off, her pride still stinging. “It’s nothing, just a—”

  His hands were already on hers, turning them over gently. His calloused fingers skimmed the bloodied palm, brows knitting at the thin line where the stone had cut deep. A bead of crimson welled and trickled down her wrist.

  She hissed softly as he tore a strip from the hem of his shirt without pause. The fabric unraveled with a sharp rip.

  “Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

  He bandaged the wound with careful, steady hands. His fingers were stained with her blood, but they were gentle as they smoothed the fabric over the gash. When he tied it off, he lingered. His thumb brushed lightly along her wrist, just above the bandage, where her pulse still fluttered against his touch.

  For a moment, he didn’t move. Their eyes met.

  The space between them was close, too close. She could feel his breath against her skin, warmer than the wind. She saw the tension in his throat as he swallowed once, hard.

  Then he let her go. Too soon. Far too soon.

  He turned away, resuming his place ahead of her without a word.

  This time, he didn’t pull away from her. When the wind kicked up again, he moved closer. Shielding her from the worst of it. And when the path grew uneven, he didn’t wait for her to stumble. He reached for her first.