The moon hung low over the palace gardens.
Theron sat alone on the stone bench by the fountain; his reflection fragmented in the rippling water. He had been there for hours, watching the stars wheel overhead, listening to the splash of water and the distant calls of night birds.
Seren found him there.
"You're brooding, what are you thinking about?" she said.
He smirked. "Just having a moment alone." He said without looking up.
She sat beside him, close enough to touch, not touching. The bond hummed with his turmoil: restless, churning, dissatisfied in ways he couldn't name.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.
"No."
"Liar."
He laughed; a short, bitter sound. "There. That was easy. Lying. It rolls off the tongue like water. Honesty is harder. Honesty takes effort."
Seren waited.
"Sometimes I miss it," he admitted. "The game. The lies. The half-truths. The mask I wore for years; charming, carefree, untouchable. It was easier than this."
"Than what?"
