The candlelight flickered across the high stone walls of her chamber, casting restless shadows that danced along with the wind. Dawn had not yet touched the sky. The world beyond the palace still slept, but she did not.

She stood near the window, wrapped in her velvet robe, her arms crossed tightly around herself. Her long auburn hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves, untamed and glinting like molten copper in the candle’s glow. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon — or perhaps nowhere at all. She was speaking softly to herself, unaware she was no longer alone.

Thorian stood in the corner, half-shrouded by the veil of shadow that clung to him as it always did. He hadn’t meant to come so early. She usually summoned him at night, with a whisper or a tear. But he missed her. Missed hearing her voice, the lilt of it, the sigh of it. He had come hoping to catch a glimpse of her asleep, peaceful — something he rarely saw anymore.

But now he stood frozen as her voice, quiet and shaking, broke into the silence.

“I don’t know how to keep his patience much longer…” she whispered, as if confessing a sin. “He says I shame him. That the kingdom needs a future, a husband at my side. But I can’t do it. I can’t marry any man. Not when he’s gone. Not when…” her voice faltered, her hand rising to press against her lips.

Thorian’s heart — if he still had one — felt like it clenched in his chest. His breath caught. He stepped forward soundlessly, the air around him shimmering faintly like fog before sunrise.

“Not when what?” he asked, his voice gentle, just loud enough.

She gasped, spinning around. But when she saw him — pale and familiar, draped in moonlight and memory — she didn’t run. She never did. Her shoulders sagged with relief, as though his presence was the only thing keeping her from crumbling entirely.

“Thorian,” she breathed.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said softly. “I came earlier than usual. I wanted to see you…” His words trailed off, and for a long moment they simply looked at each other.

And then: “You said… you can’t marry any man because he’s gone. Did you mean me?”

She looked away, eyes suddenly wet. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I know. That’s why I ask.”

She was silent for a heartbeat, then two. When she spoke again, her voice was no longer steady.

“I told you before — none of them felt right. That was the truth… but not all of it. I’ve been lying to you, Thorian. I thought… I thought maybe it would ease your guilt. But I can’t keep pretending.”

He stepped closer. The soft rustle of his coat — not quite real — brushed the air between them. “Pretending what?”

“That I could ever love anyone else. That I could ever belong to someone who isn't you. You died for loving me. I live with that every day. But I’d rather carry that pain than erase you with a crown and a stranger’s hand.”

His expression, so often calm, faltered. His eyes closed for a second. When he opened them again, they shimmered with something between sorrow and hope.

“All this time…” he said, voice low. “I thought you were simply being careful. Waiting for someone who suited you. I didn’t know… I didn’t let myself believe that you still chose me. Even now.”

She stepped toward him, and though his form was made of mist and memory, her hand found his chest — and he felt it. Warm. Real. Her touch always was.

“I never stopped choosing you,” she whispered.

He reached up, cupping her cheek with a trembling ghostly hand. “You have no idea what it means to hear you say that.”

A tear slipped down her face. He wiped it away with a touch that only she could feel. “I thought sparing you the truth would set you free,” she said. “But it only made both of us prisoners.”

Thorian leaned his forehead against hers. “Then no more lies between us.”

“No more,” she whispered.

The candle beside them flickered, as if moved by some unseen wind. Outside, the first hint of light touched the edge of the world — but neither of them moved. For just a moment, there were no ghosts. No expectations. Just the truth between two people still in love.