Peace did not mean stillness.Not in Vastelune. Not in hearts bound by something deeper than duty.
The war was over. The treaties were signed. But among the core, there were things left unsaid—things tangled not in words, but in the invisible strands between souls.
In the Threadsleep Garden, where the stars shimmered even at noon, Eluin sat alone.
The petals of the dream-lilies pulsed with faint, time-touched light. They responded to her presence—just as the dream realm always did.
"Still watching the echoes, Eluin?"
Cerys' voice.
Eluin didn't turn. Her eyes were half-lidded, her fingers tracing the rim of a shallow dream-pool. Images shimmered and vanished with each brush.
"I am not watching," Eluin replied calmly. "I am remembering."
"The war's over," Cerys said. "We should be moving forward."
"I already am," Eluin said. "I walk in seven futures at once."
Cerys approached, but paused, sensing something different. Eluin was rarely like this—open, not aloof, but vulnerable in her own ethereal way.
"You still haven't said what he means to you," Cerys said.
Eluin smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting a ripple of starlit probability.
"Ari?"
She closed her eyes.
"I have walked through the ruins of kingdoms that never existed. I have seen versions of myself—some broken, some monstrous. But in every path where I remained… me, he was always there."
Cerys' lips parted. "So… you love him?"
Eluin shook her head gently.
"No."
"Then what—?"
"What I feel… is not love. It is not devotion. It is not even loyalty. It is something far more dangerous, and far more beautiful."
She stood slowly, the Veilmantle fluttering with soft pulses of dreamlight.
"It is recognition."
"Recognition?"
"I do not serve him because I wish to. I do not follow him because I am bound. I am… aligned. As if his existence is the constant in every chaos."
She looked at Cerys with calm certainty.
"He does not belong to this world, Cerys. Neither do I. That is why I will always walk beside him. Not because I love him—but because I am part of him."
Cerys had no reply.
Somewhere in the silence, a dream-petal fell—and vanished before it touched the ground.
Ari stood in the Moonlight Courtyard, examining a broken glyph etched into the marble by an ancient king—its pattern was meant to be unreadable. To Ari, it whispered half-truths.
"You read stones now?" came Saphielle's teasing voice.
He didn't look up. "They're easier than people."
Saphielle laughed. The sound was smooth, like falling snow.
"You're hard to talk to, you know."
"People keep saying that," Ari said, still studying.
"And yet, they keep talking to you."
Now he looked at her. Saphielle wore a more formal gown this time, braided in Aurelion silver. But her eyes remained the same—sharp, poised, yet oddly searching.
"What do you want to ask?" Ari said.
"I already asked," she said.
He tilted his head.
"What are you?"
Ari didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped away from the glyph, tracing it once more with his gaze.
"I am what happens… when a system is given the chance to dream."
Saphielle blinked. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
"Then I'll keep asking."
He nodded slightly. "Then I'll keep answering."
And as they stood there in the light of Vastelune's quiet stars, two kingdoms at peace, the echoes of future wars and past truths hummed beneath their feet.
Eluin looked up at the same stars.And though her gaze never crossed Ari's that night, she felt it.
The same moment.
The same breath.
"In every dream, you are the only one who remembers the real."
And in every version of Eluin, there was always a place beside him—Not for a lover. Not for a servant.
But for something else.
Something nameless.
Something eternal.