✧ Chapter Twenty-One ✧
If I Were Braver
from Have You Someone to Protect?
By ©Amer
"If I were braver,"
Caelum's voice echoed in the fading light of the dream.
"I would tell you I loved you before the vow. Before this lifetime. And if I could… I'd wish to be just a man. Not a knight. Not a shield—just yours."
Lhady opened her eyes.
There was no one speaking now—only the still hush of morning, the way breath returns after a long absence.
And there he was.
Caelum lay asleep at the edge of the bed, one hand loosely curled by his chest, the other near hers as if he'd fallen asleep waiting for her to reach back. His brows were drawn in sleep, like he was still shouldering something heavy in his dream.
She didn't wake him.
Instead, she lay quietly for a moment, studying the way sunlight caught in the edges of his dark hair, softened the sharpness of his face. Her heart thudded slower in his presence, and her body—weak, yes, but lighter—began to feel something else. Something she couldn't name.
A flicker. A warmth. Like something buried deep inside her was waking too.
She placed her hand on her chest.
It felt like a soft fire lived there now, not painful, but burning.
Lhady rose slowly, a little wobbly on her feet, but she managed. Her legs remembered where the warmth of the kitchen was. The house was clean—books stacked neatly, letters arranged by the tea tin, herbs hung out to dry.
He had taken care of everything.
She bit her lower lip, overwhelmed, then turned quietly to the sleeping man and pulled a heavier blanket over his frame. His breathing didn't change, but his fingers twitched at the touch.
She smiled faintly.
Then she began to cook.
Caelum dreamt of fire—not chaos, not destruction, but warmth. A fire that lit the inside of a forgotten temple. He stood before a girl bathed in violet light, her hair dancing like flame in the windless room. She turned to him, her eyes not filled with fear, but longing.
Lhady.
Only, not quite as she was now. Older and younger all at once. Clothed in robes stitched with sigils he somehow recognized, though he'd never seen them. And then she spoke—not aloud, but with something deeper.
"You were there. Before the vow. You never left."
He stepped forward, armor cracking, voice caught in his throat.
"If I were braver," he finally said, "I would tell you I loved you before the vow. Before this lifetime. And if I could… I'd wish to be just a man, not a knight, not a shield—just yours."
She smiled then, gently, her fingers brushing his cheek as the fire around her rose.
"Then wake up. You're already too late."
The dream flared—and he jolted upright, breathless, his hand grasping air where Lhady had been.
She was gone.
"Lhady?" His voice cracked, wild with panic.
He threw off the blanket, disoriented. For three days, she hadn't stirred. Three days of fever and sleeptalk and stillness. He had sat by her side through it all, sleeping barely an hour at a time, reading by her bedside, watching her chest rise and fall like it might stop if he looked away.
And now the bed was empty.
He rushed out, heart in his throat.
The scent of toast and honey stirred him first.
Caelum blinked awake, momentarily disoriented—until panic struck.
"Lhady—!" he called, eyes flying open.
He sat up with a start. The bed was empty.
Visions from his dream tangled in his mind—visions of fire, of Lhady slipping away into white light, of holding out his hand and never catching hers.
Lhady stood in the small kitchen, stirring a pot gently. Her figure was thinner than before, her posture delicate, but there was a lightness in her expression that hadn't been there when she collapsed.
She had woken not long ago, after a dream that still clung to her like mist. She remembered Caelum's words in it—not imagined, she felt, but remembered. It stirred something in her, a warmth she didn't have a name for. Her chest still ached faintly, but she could move. And she was hungry. And the house…
The bookshop was clean. Fresh wood had been stacked. A vase by the window held wildflowers—lavender and whitebells. And near the hearth, folded laundry.
Her heart tugged.
Caelum bolted down the stairs and found her standing at the stove, back turned, humming softly.
Relief cracked through him like a storm leaving the sky.
"Lhady—"
She turned when she heard him. Caelum stood in the doorway, breathing hard, eyes wide like she had died and come back.
"Caelum?" she blinked.
He crossed the room in three long strides and cupped her face. His hands were firm, warm, trembling slightly.
"You're awake," he breathed. "You're standing. Lhady—don't—don't do that again. Don't just disappear like that."
"I didn't disappear," she said softly, resting her hand atop his. "I just… got up to cook. I feel okay."
"You've been asleep for three days," he said, not letting go. "You collapsed. No fever would break. You didn't speak."
Lhady's brow furrowed. "Three days…? I thought it was just one."
Caelum's voice dropped, rougher. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, her fingers curling slightly against the front of his shirt, as if to make sure he was real. "But you were with me… in the dream."
Caelum stilled. His hand, warm against her cheek, trembled faintly before he lowered it. The color in his eyes flickered, storm and light, drawn into stillness.
"What did I say?" he asked, voice low—afraid of the answer, and yet aching for it.
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked at him with a kind of quiet knowing. Not sorrow. Not surprise. Just the solemn recognition of something long buried stirring to the surface.
"It felt… true," she murmured, eyes searching his. "Even in sleep, you felt like the only real thing."
A breath escaped him—shallow, shaken.
He looked down, then up again, the battle in his gaze raw and unguarded. "Then maybe…" he whispered, "maybe it wasn't just a dream for me, either."
A pause. A beat. A breath.
Their foreheads almost touched now. Her hands were still in his. He swallowed hard.
Their silence spoke louder than any confession. It settled between them like a vow neither dared speak aloud.
And then he touched her cheek again, slower this time, reverent.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For not leaving."
Caelum's voice dropped. "I wouldn't have. Not unless you asked me to."
Their hands lingered.
Their gazes locked. The space between them no longer empty.
Caelum parted his lips like he might say more—something waiting, aching behind his breath.
But—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A knock.
Sharp. Steady. Three times.
They both startled.
Lhady stepped back instinctively. Caelum turned toward the door, jaw tightening. Few people knocked like that. It wasn't Mira, or Sian. And it wasn't Lady Calvera.
Another knock. The same rhythm.
Caelum opened it, his body subtly shielding Lhady.
A tall figure stood there, dusted in travel dirt, a cloak folded over one arm. His presence was quiet, but not invisible. His boots were clean. His eyes—grey as storm clouds—studied Caelum not with hostility, but familiarity.
But Caelum didn't know him.
"You're Caelum," the man said first.
He had no smile. No threat. Just calm certainty.
"And you are?" Caelum asked.
The man's eyes flicked behind him to where Lhady now stood in the hallway, watching. And when he met her gaze, something flickered in him—like recognition.
"I'm Elias," he said, eyes never leaving Lhady. "I think I'm… very late."