The storm reached them at dusk—black clouds swallowing the sun like a slow, greedy mouth.
Zeyr stood beside the outer sentry post on the ridge above the ruined shrine. His cloak flared in the rising wind, saturated with cold mist. Far below, a sea of pines rippled under the pressure of the weather, their tops thrashing like serpents bound at the roots. Thunder murmured in the distance—still respectful, still far off.
Behind him, a voice called: "We need to take shelter. Half the ridge's washed out."
He didn't turn.
She came up beside him anyway.
Aeryn's hair was damp, her leathers streaked with mud, and her cheeks flushed from the climb. Her presence, as always, was quieter than it should be. He hadn't heard her approach.
"We shouldn't be this exposed," she said, scanning the horizon. "That lightning's coming closer."
Zeyr stared ahead. "The mountain doesn't fear storms."
"I'm not worried about the mountain."
He finally turned. She was close. Too close.
"We passed a shrine ruin two klicks down the north slope," she continued. "Dry inside. Mostly intact. Scavengers say it's empty."
"And if it's not?"
"Then we fight better out of the rain."
The shrine had once belonged to the goddess of veils—Na-Shir, protector of masks, keepers, and liars. Only one statue remained: a figure with three faces, one of which had been carved away entirely, replaced by a crown of ashwood. Her offerings had long since gone to moss and rat dung.
The inner chamber was dry and cold. Roots had cracked the walls, threading through the stone like veins. Broken incense altars littered the floor. A half-collapsed lectern leaned drunkenly against the east wall, charred at its edges.
Zeyr entered first, eyes adjusting instantly to the gloom. Aeryn followed behind, shaking water from her shoulders. Her boots left dark prints in the dust.
"We won't be able to leave 'til morning," she said. "Storm's building."
He didn't respond.
She lit a small flame using flint and a ball of resin-wrapped twine. The fire hissed but caught, glowing gold-orange between them.
They sat across from one another, silent.
For a time, there was only the wind outside, and the shifting of wood straining above them. Rain began to hammer the shrine like fists on a door.
Aeryn finally broke the quiet.
"You knew how to flank that last patrol. Before I gave the order."
Zeyr looked up.
"I guessed."
"No," she said softly. "You knew."
He tilted his head. "That's not a crime."
"Neither is memory."
She stood slowly and approached him.
"You remind me of someone."
"Do I."
"Yes."
She crouched in front of him, studying his face in firelight. Her pupils narrowed. Her voice dropped.
"He was poison. And shadow. And silence."
Zeyr's fingers twitched.
"He had a scar," she whispered. "Here."
She pointed at the ridge of his left hand. The one he always kept gloved. The dragon-burn brand.
"He got it when—" Her voice caught.
She looked up at him.
Zeyr said nothing.
She reached out.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He didn't stop her.
She pulled off the glove.
There it was.
The old mark. The seal of the court executioners. Branded onto him by the Empire before they buried him alive.
Aeryn didn't speak.
Her face changed.
Not in rage. Not in horror.
But in understanding.
"No one told me you lived," she said. Her voice was paper-thin. "They said the rot took you. That you betrayed us."
"I did betray us," Zeyr murmured.
She stood.
"Why are you here?"
"To burn what's left."
She shook her head, eyes gleaming. "No. Not that. Why are you here—with me?"
He looked up.
The firelight caught his eyes—green, endless, haunted.
"Because I saw you."
She stepped back.
"They brought me back," she said. "Piece by piece. I remember pain. And the hymns. I remember waking up inside myself. With someone else using my mouth."
Zeyr rose, slow as mist.
"I know."
"They let me keep enough to recognize names. Emotions. You were marked for erasure, but I wouldn't let them take your name."
She swallowed.
"You were the only thing I disobeyed for."
He took a step forward.
She didn't move.
"And I was the only thing you forgot."
A pause.
Her breath caught. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Lightning flashed—too close now.
Zeyr said, quietly, "Did you ever love me?"
The silence trembled.
Then:
"Yes."
She stepped forward and pressed her forehead to his.
He closed his eyes.
Their breaths aligned.
She whispered: "But I don't know what I am anymore."
He took her hand and placed it on his chest.
"Then let's be wrong together."
Her lips brushed his.
The kiss was slow. Not hungry. Not gentle.
Just necessary.
They sank together onto the floor beside the fire, fingers trembling as they searched for something still alive in each other. Her hands slid across his scaled back. His clawed fingers curled around her waist.
They did not undress fully—only enough.
The old gods watched with broken eyes.
And for a few minutes, they weren't dead things wearing names.
They were just people.
Afterward, they lay together in silence.
His breath had returned to its measured rhythm.
Hers had not.
"I knew it was you," she said eventually.
Zeyr stared at the ceiling. "When?"
"When I first saw your walk."
He chuckled once. "Then why let me stay?"
She looked at him.
"Because I wanted to be wrong."
He turned to her.
She reached up and touched his cheek.
"But now I need to know what you've become."
She rose to her feet.
Her body was scarred. Not with wounds—but with glyphs.
Her back bore the full sigil of the Sun Choir, etched like living fire beneath the skin.
It began to glow.
Zeyr stood slowly.
"Don't," he said.
"I have to."
He reached for her.
She stepped back and drew both blades.
He didn't move.
She whispered: "If you still love me, you'll draw yours."
He said nothing.
She came at him.
Fast.
Too fast.
He twisted, avoiding the first strike, but her second blade nicked his cheek. Blood hissed where it landed.
Zeyr exhaled once.
Then flicked his wrist.
Poison bloomed around his skin like steam off boiling water. His fingernails blackened. His breath fogged.
They clashed.
Steel against scaled knuckles. Light against rot.
She struck high—he ducked and slammed his shoulder into her ribs.
She gasped, staggered, spun low and sliced the back of his thigh.
He grunted.
"Stop holding back," she hissed.
He didn't answer.
He surged forward, slammed her blade arm into the wall. She headbutted him.
He stumbled back.
Lightning struck the roof. Stone crumbled.
They circled each other now—ragged breath, blood on the floor, flame flickering low.
"I want to believe you," she said, voice shaking.
"Then believe me."
"I can't."
She lunged again.
He dodged—but only just.
His counterstrike was slow. Hesitant.
She grabbed his wrist.
"I don't know which of us I'm fighting," she whispered.
Then—
Her hand spasmed.
She dropped her blade.
Clutched her side.
Fell.
Zeyr moved forward—
And froze.
She was glowing.
From within.
The glyphs on her back were pulsing violently, as if rejecting something.
He reached for her.
She coughed—hard.
And something white came out of her mouth.
Like a whisper made physical.
She convulsed.
Zeyr dropped beside her, pressing his hands to her chest.
"No. No, no—"
She looked up at him.
"Run."
The light flared.
And then died.
She lay still.
But breathing.
Barely.
Zeyr lifted her into his arms.
The shrine cracked around them.
Rain poured in.
He ran.
---