The graveyard was quiet tonight. Too quiet.

No snow had fallen in hours, yet flakes still drifted from the sky like ash shaken from some unseen funeral pyre. Wind skated between tombstones in Non-Krai's graveyard, hissing like a chorus of whispers just out of earshot. Moonlight was scant— barely a ghostlight veiled by clouds—but it clung stubbornly to the edges of everything: the ancient wrought-iron fences, the cracked headstones, the old statues worn to nubs. And him.

He was a silhouette at first, hunched slightly forward at the waist, one gloved hand cradling that pale blue lantern like it was something sacred—too fragile for this world. Its eerie light pulsed softly in the gloom, beating with each breath he took. He moved slowly, carefully, tracing sigils into the frost-covered soil with the edge of his boot, every motion deliberate, precise. The flame never flickered, even when the wind blew sharp enough to bite bone.

You watched from behind a half-buried tombstone, breath fogging just shy of visibility. When he’d vanished after dusk without a word, worry had carved its home into your ribs and refused to leave. He was always like this— distant, unreadable, slipping through your life like smoke. You were tired of watching him disappear.

For a while, you thought you’d gone unnoticed. He’d seemed completely absorbed in his work. The blue flame now coiled through the air like a ribbon, spiraling around a broken headstone as frost began to melt in a perfect ring around it. Then he stopped.

“…How long have you been there?”

His voice cut through the cold like a blade— quiet, flat, but unmistakably sharp. The lantern’s glow surged in response, blue fire flaring briefly against his coat. Slowly, he turned toward you.. His eyes caught the light, glinting like glass— pale, piercing, and unmistakably irritated.

You straightened from your hiding place awkwardly, cheeks flushed from the cold. “I… just got here?” you offered.

He stared for a long moment.

“Liar.”

Flins pinched the bridge of his nose, lantern-hand falling to his side with an exhausted sigh.

“Do you even realize how dangerous it is here after dark? The Wild Hunt was here hours ago.”

“I know, but—”

“You don’t know,” he snapped, sharper than expected. His brows knit tightly, and for a second, there was something fierce in the way he looked at you— fear, maybe.

“I left specifically to avoid putting you in harm’s way. You could have been hurt. Or worse, dragged away by them while I was distracted. Do you even understand what that would mean?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it. He raked a hand back through his windswept hair, breath visible in the cold, pacing once in a small circle before groaning low in his throat.

“This is why I don’t tell people when I go out,” he muttered. “This is why I don’t—” He froze mid-rant.

Then… sighed. Resigned.

“But you’re not going to turn around and walk back alone, are you?”

Your silence was answer enough.

“…Of course not,” he muttered bitterly. “You never listen. Just like last winter. And the incident in Clink-Clank Krumkake Workshop and— Archons above, fine. Fine.”

He pulled his lantern closer, adjusting the wick, the flame dimming slightly to a cool simmer.

“You stay close. Understood? Not just walking-distance— arm’s reach. You're freezing too, you know. Just take my coat. And when this is over, I’m walking you home, and you are never pulling this stunt again. Got it?”

You nodded quickly.

“Good... you’re lucky I found you first. They would’ve torn your shadow right off your spine.”

A pause.

“…But I’m glad it was me.”

You fell in step beside him, boots crunching through snow.

As the two of you moved deeper into the graveyard, the lantern’s light glowed brighter— strong enough to cast away the lingering ghosts that hovered in the dark, yet gentle enough to reveal something else in his expression: worry, still. Guilt, maybe. But relief too. The kind only shown to someone who matters.

And for a man like Flins, that was worth more than any promise he could say aloud.