Caelan didn't stop running until the forest swallowed him whole.
Branches clawed at his cloak like jealous fingers, roots tripped him twice, and still he pushed deeper, lungs burning, blood singing with the sharp, stupid thrill of survival. The twin moons watched him through the canopy, one cold and silver, the other a bleeding ruby, as if the sky itself was torn between mercy and hunger.
He finally collapsed against the massive trunk of an ironwood, sliding down until his back hit mossy bark. His chest heaved. Sweat stung the shallow cut across his ribs where Thorne's blade had kissed him—just a graze, but enough to remind him how close death had come this time.
He peeled back the torn leather, hissing through his teeth. The wound was shallow, angry red, already weeping. Not fatal. Just painful. Just enough to make every breath feel like swallowing glass.
Eros materialized in front of him, hovering at eye level, wings slowing to a lazy flutter. For once, the spirit looked almost serious.
"You're bleeding," he said softly. No teasing. No grin. Just quiet observation.
Caelan laughed, a short, ragged sound. "Brilliant observation. Remind me to give you a medal."
Eros drifted closer, inspecting the cut with the detached curiosity of someone who had never known pain. "It's not deep. But it will slow you down. And you're going to need speed soon."
"Soon?" Caelan pressed his palm against the wound, grimacing. "What's coming soon?"
The spirit hesitated, then shrugged one delicate shoulder. "The captain. He's… persistent. And right now, he's very motivated."
Caelan's stomach flipped. "He's hunting me."
"Oh yes." Eros's golden eyes sparkled despite the gravity. "He's out there right now, organizing patrols, sharpening that ridiculous sword, and thinking about the thief who slipped through his fingers twice. Thinking about your face. Your smirk. The way you looked at him like you knew something he didn't."
Caelan swallowed. Hard. The memory of those blue eyes locked on his, inches away, flashed behind his eyelids—fierce, furious, and something else. Something that had made the air between them crackle like dry lightning.
He shoved the thought away. "Great. So I'm not just a target. I'm a personal insult."
Eros floated down to perch on his bent knee, wings folding neatly. "You're a puzzle, darling. And Thorne Ironfist doesn't like puzzles he can't solve with steel."
Silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hoot of a nightbird and the soft drip of water somewhere in the undergrowth.
Caelan tipped his head back against the tree, staring up at the fractured moonlight. "This is insane. All of it. I'm supposed to… what? Seduce him? Make him fall in love with me? Me? The guy who once ghosted a perfectly nice person because they said 'I love you' too soon?"
Eros tilted his head, studying him. "You're afraid."
Caelan's laugh was bitter. "Understatement of the century."
The spirit reached out, impossibly gentle, and laid one glowing fingertip against the wound. Warmth bloomed there—soft, golden, soothing. The bleeding slowed. The pain dulled to a distant throb.
"You're not the first person to be terrified of love," Eros murmured. "Most are. That's why it's worth the risk."
Caelan looked down at the tiny creature. "And if I fail? If he kills me before I even get close?"
Eros's smile was small, almost sad. "Then you'll have lived more in these few weeks than Connor Throne did in twenty-eight years. And that's something."
The words landed like stones in still water. Caelan closed his eyes, feeling the strange warmth spread from the wound through his chest, settling somewhere deep, somewhere he hadn't known was cold.
He stayed there until the moons climbed higher, until his breathing steadied, until the night grew quiet enough that he could hear his own heartbeat.
Then he stood.
He tore a strip from the hem of his cloak, bound the wound tightly, and straightened.
Eros watched him with bright, curious eyes. "Where to now?"
"Back to the lair," Caelan said. "I need to report. And I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about Thorne Ironfist."
The spirit's grin returned, slow and wicked. "Oh, I have a few ideas."
"Don't."
"Too late. They're already forming. Delicious ones."
Caelan rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.
He turned back toward the hidden paths that led underground, moving slower now, careful of the wound, careful of the shadows that might hide armored patrols.
Behind him, the forest whispered secrets.
And somewhere in the outpost, Thorne Ironfist stood at the edge of the treeline, sword sheathed but hand still resting on the hilt, staring into the dark where the thief had disappeared.
He touched the torn edge of his cloak where Caelan's dagger had kissed the fabric.
He didn't know why he hadn't ordered the full hunt yet.
He didn't know why the thief's face kept surfacing behind his eyes—sharp, mocking, alive in a way nothing had felt alive in years.
He only knew that the night felt heavier now, thicker with possibility, with danger, with something he refused to name.
And that, for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to the next fight.
The moons watched them both.
One silver. One blood-red.
And somewhere between them, in the space where hatred and want began to blur, the first fragile thread of something new began to weave itself into being.