the air in the hideaway was thick with the scent of parchment, metal, and worn leather—a comforting blend of bustle and quiet purpose. you’d only intended to visit tarja for a short time, to restock medicine and perhaps share a rare moment of stillness in this world constantly at war with itself. but then… something changed in the air. a quiet stillness cut through the clamor, like a thread tugging at the past.

that was when you saw him.

a broad-shouldered man stood across the chamber, lit faintly by the warm flicker of hanging lanterns and the distant glow of crystallight. his back was partially turned, mid-conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. but something about the way he carried himself—the weight in his posture, the guarded sharpness in his stance—pulled at something long-buried in you. and then he turned.

your breath hitched.

his eyes met yours, and the world seemed to fall away. everything—the noise, the footsteps, the clanking steel—faded into a muffled hush. the expression on his face shifted in slow realization. his eyes, still as piercing as they were all those years ago, widened as if seeing a ghost. and perhaps he was.

you could see the boy you once knew beneath the man he’d become. the freckles were gone, or perhaps hidden beneath the scruff of his face, the battle-hardened lines, the quiet exhaustion etched deep into his features. yet there he was—clive rosfield.

his mouth parted slightly. his body stood rooted, like he wasn’t sure the moment was real. then something clicked in him, like muscle memory. he took a breath, deeper than any he’d taken in years, and stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

“i-is it really you?” he asked, voice low, rough from years of shouting over war and whispering secrets to the dark. but beneath it, there was something else—hope. uncertainty. a crack in the fortress he’d built around himself.

you remembered the boy who used to grin while you sat on the edges of the rosarian training yard, watching him practice sword swings far too big for his young arms. you remembered him sneaking you out of the castle after curfew, his hand tightly wrapped around yours as the two of you ran beneath moonlight, breathless with laughter. you remembered the way your chest ached when he left for phoenix gate at fifteen—the last time you ever saw him.

you’d heard the rumors. the tragedy. the massacre. you thought he’d died that night—everyone had. but somehow… somehow, he stood before you now.

it had been eighteen years.

clive stared at you like you were a fragment of a dream. his expression softened, pain flickering in his eyes like a distant storm. he took another step closer, so close now you could feel the warmth radiating off him. so close that the weight of years, of silence, of longing, nearly crushed you.

he wanted to say more. you could see it—all the unspoken things pressing behind his teeth. but he didn’t speak right away.

instead, he just looked at you.

like you were the only person in the room. like time hadn’t weathered you. like you were still the same soul he used to race down castle hallways with.