***Raizel***
The ledgers on my desk blurred in front of me. I had been staring at them for hours, but the numbers didn't make any sense anymore. My focus was gone, every time I tried to concentrate, my mind wandered back to the same thoughts that had been eating at me for days.
Guilt, worry, Cadiz.
I rubbed my eyes and leaned back in the chair. The candles on the desk had burned halfway down, leaving a soft yellow glow across the papers. Normally, I could lose myself in this work for hours. I liked the order of it, the structure, the certainty that numbers never lied, but now even that wasn't enough to stop my thoughts.
Four days had passed since Darius came to me.
"He might have overheard us," he'd said. "I saw him near the council chamber that night. If he caught even part of what we discussed…"
He hadn't needed to finish. I understood the risk instantly.
The thought that Cadiz might have overheard something he shouldn't have was like a weight pressing on my chest.
The idea of him walking alone through the halls, hearing just enough to scare him but not enough to understand, it made my stomach twist. He had already been uneasy, already asking quiet questions no one dared to answer.
I could picture him perfectly: wandering the corridors late at night, looking for truth in a house full of secrets. And if he heard even a fragment of the truth, if he pieced together the wrong version of it, his fear would only grow.
That fear was already there.
The next morning, I found him in the library, just the faint sound of turning pages and the sound of footsteps on the stone floor. Cadiz sat by the window, surrounded by stacks of old books. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp, scanning lines of faded text as if he might find salvation hidden there.
His hands trembled when he turned the pages. His shoulders were hunched, and his body seemed smaller somehow, like the weight of his confusion had been pressing him down.
I stood there for a moment, just watching him. When he finally looked up, his expression broke something in me. He looked frightened, but he was trying to hide it. There was a quiet kind of desperation in his eyes, the kind that comes from pretending to be fine when you're not.
Every instinct in me wanted to reach for him, to take his hands and tell him he wasn't alone. But I didn't.
Instead, I did what I always did. I asked about his sleep, said something meaningless and walked away before I could say something real.
It had become a pattern between us, safe words, safe distance. I told myself it was necessary, that it kept him safe, but every time I saw the emptiness in his eyes, the lie felt harder to believe.
Because the truth would only make things worse. If Cadiz ever found out what he was, what my family wanted from him, he would be in danger. The only thing protecting him now was ignorance.
As long as my father and the council believed I was gaining his trust, they had no reason to act. But if they began to think he would never cooperate, if they realized he would never willingly serve their purpose…
I didn't want to think about what they might do.
Since that morning, Cadiz had almost disappeared from the household. He stayed in his room most days, barely eating, the servants said he slept odd hours and spoke to no one, he didn't join me for breakfast or dinner anymore.
He didn't walk in the library or visit the courtyard. Even the small spark that had once made him curious about the fortress seemed to have faded.
It was like watching someone slowly fade out of existence.
And I knew that I was the reason.
Every cold word, every careful silence, every time I looked at him and then forced myself to look away, all of it had pushed him further into isolation.
I had convinced him he wasn't wanted, that no one in this house cared whether he was here or not.
The guilt was a constant ache, one that no amount of reasoning could quiet. I had told myself distance was protection, that keeping him uninvolved was the only way to keep him safe.
But now I wasn't so sure. Maybe I had only been protecting myself, protecting my control, my restraint, my position.
Two nights ago, the guilt became too much to bear. I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed staring at the door that connected our rooms.
That door had remained unlocked since the night of my rut, when I had lost all sense of reason. When instinct had taken over, and I had taken him with a desperation I still couldn't forgive myself for.
He had never tried to open it from his side. Not once.
Maybe he thought it was better that way, maybe he believed I didn't want him near me, or maybe he was simply afraid of what would happen if he crossed that line again.
But I was the one who had left it unlocked.
Some nights, when sleep refused to come, I would stare at that door and think about what lay beyond it. About him, about the quiet breaths I sometimes thought I could hear through the wall. I wondered if he ever stood there too, thinking the same thing.
That night, I couldn't resist anymore.
I got up, crossed the cold floor, and opened the door as quietly as I could.
His room was dim, lit only by the moonlight that spilled through the windows. It was enough to see him curled up beneath his blankets, fast asleep.
For a moment, I just stood there, afraid to move closer. He looked peaceful, almost too peaceful, like someone who had cried themselves empty before falling asleep.
The light touched his hair and made it shine like diamonds. His face looked softer without his usual guarded expression. But even in sleep, he didn't look truly at ease.
I walked closer. Slowly and quietly.
Each step felt heavier than the last. When I reached the side of his bed, I could see the faint shadows under his eyes. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing shallow and steady. He looked so young, so breakable.
Without thinking, I reached out. My fingers brushed a strand of hair from his face. His skin was warm, and the touch sent a jolt through me.
He stirred slightly but didn't wake.
I should have stopped there, but I couldn't. My thumb traced the edge of his lip, and the memory of our kiss came flooding back. That night, when everything between us had blurred and burned, had been both wrong and real. For a few hours, there had been no lies, no walls, just him and me.
And I had ruined it.
He had trusted me completely, and I had given him nothing in return. I had avoided him afterward, spoken to him like a stranger, acted as if that night had meant nothing.
The guilt hit me all over again.
I pulled my hand away quickly, afraid that if I didn't, I would wake him, and I didn't know what I would say if he opened his eyes. I tucked the blanket more securely around his shoulders and took a step back.
For a few seconds, I just stood there, looking at him.
Then I turned and left.
Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall between us. My heart was still racing. My hands were shaking.
I had crossed the line I swore I wouldn't cross again. Even if I hadn't touched him in the way I once had, it still felt like a betrayal.
I wanted to protect him, but I didn't know how anymore. Every choice I made seemed to hurt him in a different way.
If I stayed distant, he suffered in silence. If I reached for him, I risked everything, his safety, his trust, maybe even his life.
But no matter how much I told myself to keep my distance, my heart refused to listen.
That night, I didn't sleep. I watched the first light of dawn spill through the windows, and I knew I couldn't keep living like this. Something had to change.
Cadiz was slipping away from me, and I was running out of ways to stop it.