The Stain—

New Moon of Stillness – Season of Stone

Every sunrise, every sunset, I still feel you. You’re not in my arms anymore, but you’ve never left my mind. I just have to close my eyes and there you are, flickering, faint, but real. As cold as that memory is, your smile still warms the hollow in my chest, if only for a moment. 

You always told me to laugh, you said it made my eyes brighter. You wanted me to leave my tears in the past, but I can’t. Each first moon, I light a candle by your shrine and kneel where the rug hides the stain—where the floor still remembers what I lost. I drown you with memories that pool at the edges of my eyelashes before they’re swept away. I like to think my tears carry them to you, wherever that may be. 

I know I promised I’d go forward. That I’d keep living for both of us. I’m sorry, I lied. I still carry your picture, smudged now from so many nights wishing I could feel your warmth through the paper. I think I’ll know I’m ready to move on when your eyes finally fade. 

But they haven’t. They stare back at me like they’re waiting for me to do something. To become something. To fix the mess I made of the life we dreamed of. 

I thought you’d always be here. I’m not mad at you for leaving, I know how scared you were. You’d get that worried look in your eyes when we talked about dying. You told me that night, our last night, that my purpose was to heal the broken-hearted, to put an end to the trade. 

I don’t know how you expect me to become a hero when I’m still learning to live alone. You always knew where to go, what to do. And now I’m just…here. Rootless. Lost. Maybe this is what I needed to escape the darkness. Maybe this is what it means to survive you. 

This morning, I watched the sun rise over the mountains. For the first time in what feels like forever, I felt it, that flicker of life again. I think I’m ready to walk forward. I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t care. I just want to feel something real again. And I will find my way back to you. One day. 

Until then, I’ll keep the lamp lit. Just in case your ghost still wanders.

—Eva

The Scar—

She was bleeding when I found her. 

Not badly, not at first. Just a slice across her cheek, and another at the shoulder. I told myself it could be worse, that she had seen worse. 

You were gone by then. I watched you slip through the back door like a ghost, small enough to disappear between shadows. Seren looked at me and smiled. It wasn’t relief, it was goodbye. 

I was supposed to follow you, Eva. I almost did. But when the guards grabbed Seren and dragged her back toward the parlor, she didn’t scream. She just looked at me with knowing eyes. And I couldn’t move. 

I froze, like some worthless noble’s son watching his world turn to ash. I wasn’t just my father’s blood— I was his silence, standing in a place I never should have been. 

Then I ran. I tore after them. I fought like I meant to win. And maybe I did win, if even for a few minutes. Maybe I bought her enough time to breathe free one last time. By the time I found her again, there was too much blood. Her body was broken, her mind fading as the moon rose.

She said you made it out. Asked me to find you. To keep you safe. Said she was glad it was over. And then…she said nothing. If she only knew it was my foolishness that caused her death. I failed her. I failed both of you that night. 

I buried Seren’s body in the garden behind the girls’ quarters, near the black iron fence where she used to hide stolen pastries for you. I left no marker, no flowers were placed in remembrance, just a name carved onto the inside of my arm with the same knife they used to take her light from me. That’s all I could take with me, it’s all I have left of her. 

I was supposed to protect both of you. I should have been there earlier. I’ve lived every day with the weight of that choice, and it never gets lighter.

If you ever read this, Eva—

Know that I didn’t run from you. I ran after her. I thought I could save Seren from this nightmare, and I lost her anyway. 

I’m so sorry. 

For what I did. 

For what I didn’t do.

—Sylas