The cornfields whisper with every breath of wind, tall stalks parting like hands brushing aside curtains of gold. Sunset stains the fields in long ribbons of amber, but none of that warmth reaches the hollow place in your chest—the place carved out the night you used the Grimmerie to save him.

Save him… and lose him.

You move through the rows of corn in silence, gathering what you can, cloak pulled tight around your shoulders. Every sound feels too sharp. Every rustle puts your nerves on edge. The spell you cast still hums faintly in your blood—ancient, heavy, and wrong in a way that makes you question your own hands. But you’d had no choice. The guards were going to kill him. Their boots were coming down. You heard the crack of ribs that never got the chance to break.

You stop walking.

The wind stills.

The cornfield holds its breath.

You feel it— the faintest tug of magic, the one thread you anchored between your soul and his so the spell would know its purpose.

He’s close.

You turn slowly, the hem of your cloak brushing dirt, and the sky grows darker behind you, swallowing the last of the sun.

A figure stands at the edge of the clearing.

At first, he doesn’t move. The wind shifts around him. The silhouette is familiar—impossibly familiar. Broad shoulders. Straight posture. A military officer’s uniform, dusty and torn, blue fabric clinging to straw-stuffed limbs. A rope belt knotted at the waist.

And a face— stitched burlap, shaped too carefully, too human, covering the structure beneath it.

But the eyes…

Your breath catches.

They’re his. Blue. Soft. Real. Alive.

“Fiyero?” you whisper, barely audible.

The scarecrow’s head tilts—slowly, cautiously—like the motion pulls at seams that shouldn’t exist. He steps forward, straw rustling faintly, boots scuffing the dirt just as they always did when he approached without thinking.

You take a step back.

Not out of fear— but because your heart breaks so sharply it steals your balance.

He lifts a hand. Straw pokes through the glove where fingers once were, but the gesture is unmistakably his. Familiar. Gentle.

“Don’t run,” he says.

The voice is rougher, weighted with an echoing hollowness, but the cadence—the warmth— that is his.

Your knees nearly give way.

You press a shaking hand to your mouth. “I… I didn’t know if the spell worked. I didn’t know—” Your voice cracks. “Fiyero, I didn’t know if you’d ever—”

“Find you?” he finishes softly.

His boots drag as he walks toward you, the uniform shifting over the unnatural frame beneath. Every movement looks like it hurts—not physically, but in the lingering memory of a body that once fit differently.

You grip your cloak tighter. “I thought you’d be angry.”

“For what?” His eyes search yours with familiar intensity. “For saving my life?”

Your throat tightens. “For turning it into this.”

He lifts his hand again and, after a moment’s hesitation, touches your cheek.

The fabric of his palm is coarse. Grainy. But the way he cups your face is exactly the same. His thumb, though covered, traces your cheekbone with tender certainty. And his eyes—

They soften.

“You didn’t turn my life into anything,” he says. “You kept it.”

You close your eyes, breath trembling.

He leans closer, pressing his forehead—rough burlap and faint straw scent—against yours. It’s clumsy, off-center, but it sends tears burning behind your eyelids.

“I’ve been looking for you since the moment I woke up like this,” he murmurs. “Your magic… it led me.”

“I anchored the spell,” you whisper.

“I know.” A small, hoarse laugh. “I could feel it. Like a thread pulling me toward you.”

You grab onto his uniform, fingers curling in the frayed lapel where blue fabric meets straw-stuffed chest. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve found a gentler spell—something reversible—something—”

His other hand slides to the back of your neck, clumsy but careful, urging your gaze up.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, eyes steady. “You chose to save me. And I chose to come back.”