The grey light of dawn had fully filled the room, chasing the shadows from the corners, painting the stone walls in shades of silver and pearl. The fire was dead, the embers cold, but neither of us had moved to relight it. We lay together on the bed, tangled in the furs, his head on my chest, my arms around him.
The nightmare had passed, but its echoes lingered: the battlefield, the silver-haired saint, the blade meant for another. Kaelen's breathing had steadied, and his body had stopped trembling, but I could feel the tension still coiled in his muscles and the fear still lurking at the edges of his consciousness.
I stroked his hair, my fingers threading through the dark strands, and I thought about the secrets I was still carrying.
The truth was there, hovering on the edge of my tongue, waiting to be spoken. The woman in your dreams is me. I was her. I died on that battlefield, and you died protecting me. I was given a second chance, and I came north to save you.
