The forest settled behind her like a door closing.
Cedric watched the last flicker of heat fade from the grass where Ilyra had walked, the faint steam curling into the air like a ghost of what had just passed between them.
He didn't speak for a long time. Neither did Alaric.
The fire crackled, a muted, almost embarrassed sound in the hush that followed. Somewhere beyond the camp's edge, an owl hooted once—sharp and far-off, as if to punctuate the stillness.
Alaric sat down slowly, elbows braced on his knees, rubbing a hand over his mouth. His jaw was set, but there was tension in the way his fingers moved—restless, unsure. The words they had spoken in confidence had unraveled, made raw under Ilyra's gaze. Not because they were wrong.
Because they knew she had already feared it too.
Cedric remained standing for a while longer, his hands fisting and unfisting at his sides. The guilt gnawed sharper with every breath.
