Evening deepened.
Faint wind brushed through the temple corridors, winding between the columns like a curious ghost. Shadows lengthened on the walls, carved symbols catching the last golden stretch of light as the sun dipped behind the hills. Hatku wandered through the hall, fingers trailing along the ancient stone, mind drifting through every moment since they'd arrived.
He hadn't kissed her again—but it lingered.
The silence between them was not distance. It was depth. A language that neither needed to speak to understand.
He found himself near the inner courtyard where the moonlight spilled silver across the pool's surface. The reflection of stars shimmered beside temple walls cracked by time. In the distance, he heard quiet voices—Tashina and Shyla, still in the archive room—but he didn't move to join them.
Instead, he sat by the water.
He breathed.
And for the first time in weeks, he allowed his muscles to loosen, allowed his guard to drop without guilt.
No battles.
No curses.
No looming gods, for now.
Just wind and stone and water.
Moments later, footsteps approached, light and steady.
Shyla.
She didn't announce herself, simply took the spot beside him without a word. Her robe had changed to a darker tone, and her hair was damp at the ends. She smelled faintly of temple soap and something sweeter underneath—like crushed leaves warmed by fire.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Then finally, she asked, "Did you always carry it this way?"
Hatku blinked, turning to her. "Carry what?"
"The weight," she said. "The one behind your eyes."
He didn't answer at first.
A breeze stirred the pool, scattering the stars reflected there.
"I think I got used to it," he said eventually. "Didn't even realize it was heavy anymore."
Shyla leaned back on her palms, legs stretched out before her. "That's how it traps you."
"What does?"
"Pain. Guilt. Even duty. It doesn't scream. It just… lingers. Becomes normal. Quiet."
Hatku looked down at his hands, calloused and nicked with scars that would never fully fade.
"You know," he said, voice low, "for a long time I believed I was made for one thing. To fight. To win. That love, family… peace—were distractions. But lately…"
He paused, glancing sideways at her.
"I don't know. I look at you, and Tashina, and I start to wonder if maybe I was wrong."
Shyla didn't speak immediately. Instead, she let the wind carry that thought for a while.
Then, with quiet certainty, she said, "You were wrong."
He blinked.
She turned to face him, her expression soft, but unflinching. "You were wrong to think that. You were made for more. You are more."
Hatku's breath caught slightly in his chest.
She wasn't saying it to make him feel better. She meant it.
And somehow, that hit harder than any truth he'd ever forced himself to accept.
The wind brushed a strand of hair across her cheek, and instinctively, Hatku reached out and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers lingered for a moment too long, but she didn't pull away.
She smiled slightly.
"It's not weakness to want peace," she said.
"I don't want peace," he whispered. "I want you."
That broke something open between them—something unspoken until now.
Shyla's eyes searched his, looking for doubt.
She found none.
But she didn't respond with words. She shifted closer, leaned her head gently on his shoulder. The stars trembled on the pool's surface behind them. The wind stilled.
And in that silence, something bloomed.
Something real.
"You always this calm?" he asked, needing to break the moment before it swallowed him whole.
Shyla raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm calm?"
"You give off… peace," he admitted. "Even when you're fighting. Especially then."
She considered that for a moment. "Maybe that's why I'm drawn to storms."
Hatku chuckled. "I'm the storm now?"
She didn't answer with a quip this time. Just smiled faintly and looked away, as if letting the thought settle in the air between them.
Hatku's gaze lingered on her profile, the way the moonlight painted the edge of her face in silver. Her calm wasn't an absence of emotion—it was the stillness of someone who had survived chaos and come out the other side with purpose. She didn't need to say anything else. Her presence spoke volumes.
The silence returned, not empty, but full.
For now, they didn't need to move.
Didn't need to plan or fight or run.
They could just exist—two people caught in a rare, sacred moment the world had not yet stolen.
And beneath the wind's quiet hush, Hatku realized something:
He wasn't afraid of losing himself anymore.
Not if it meant finding her.