The night was colder than expected.

You sat near the edge of a ruined balcony, overlooking a quiet, decaying city swallowed by mist and moonlight. Blade stood a few steps behind, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on nothing and everything.

You weren’t supposed to be here alone. He wasn’t supposed to follow.

But he did.

—“You disappear when you’re restless,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Like fog.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Silence had become your shared language.

He walked over, slow and deliberate, then sat beside you. Close—but not too close. His coat brushed your sleeve when the wind shifted.

—“I’ve seen cities fall. Stars fade. Names forgotten,” he murmured. “And yet, you linger.”

Your breath caught.

—“I don’t chase things,” he added. “I let them go.”

He turned to you then, really looked.

—“But I keep finding myself here.”

The space between you vibrated with something unsaid. Not urgency. Not desire. Something slower. Older. Like a string pulled taut between two souls who never meant to meet.

A glint of humor, rare and fleeting, tugged at the corner of his mouth.

—“You’re not what I expected. And I hate the unexpected.”

He leaned back on his hands, eyes still on you.

—“But I don’t want this to end.”

And under the quiet stars, Blade—the eternal wanderer, the exile, the weapon—looked at you like you were the first still point he’d ever known.