The mountain was quieter than usual. No distant wind, no creaking branches. Just the faint hush of snow, falling like breath from the stars.

Eira sat curled in the corner of her chamber, knees tucked close. The fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth barely touched her. Her mind was still in that hallway—echoing with his voice.

> “Another girl walking to her own ruin.”

She’d expected him to stop her. To block the door. To rage.

But he’d simply looked... tired.

Her fingers flexed in her lap. She didn’t regret standing her ground. But the ache in her chest was harder to ignore.

A soft knock. Then silence.

She didn’t answer.

The door creaked open anyway. Quiet, cautious.

He stood there in the glow of torchlight—hair loose, shadows under his eyes. In his hands: a tray with a simple ceramic pot and two cups.

He didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and placed it gently on the small table beside her.

“You didn’t eat,” he said finally.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Still.”

She glanced up. “You’re suddenly worried I’ll starve?”

His jaw tensed. “I’m worried you’ll vanish.”

Her breath caught. It wasn’t the words. It was the tone—raw, unguarded. Something flickered behind his eyes and vanished again.

He poured the tea. The scent of it—herbs and faint spice—soothed something taut inside her.

She took the cup from his hands. Their fingers brushed. She felt it like static.

They sat in silence. The fire crackled between them.

She sipped. “You always avoid answering.”

“I answer more than I should.”

“Do you think I’m weak for wanting to know?”

He looked at her slowly. “No. I think you’re foolish. Brave. Infuriating.”

“And you?”

“I’m worse,” he said, voice quiet. “Because I know exactly what I’m doing—and I still let you stay.”

That silenced her.

He stood and crossed to the hearth, leaning one arm against the stone mantle. The firelight danced on the contours of his back, his shoulders—tension etched deep into every line.

She stared into her cup. “When I was younger,” she said slowly, “I used to have nightmares about being left behind. I’d wake up and everyone was gone. The village. My mother. The sky.”

He turned to her.

“I used to think being alone was the worst fate,” she murmured. “Now I’m starting to think... it’s being with people who hide everything from you.”

The quiet that followed was heavy—not with anger, but with truth.

He moved, slow and deliberate, and sat beside her—not too close, but close enough.

“I’ve lost people,” he said. “So many that I stopped counting. Stopped remembering. That door you wanted to open—what lies beyond it took most of them.”

She turned to him, startled.

His gaze didn’t meet hers. “I told you there was no turning back because I meant it. Once you know what’s behind that door, you won’t look at me the same.”

“Then why let me stay?” she asked.

His eyes met hers finally, and the firelight caught a glint of something—grief, maybe. Or longing.

“Because... despite everything, I want to be seen.”

They sat in that fragile stillness.

Eira set her cup down, fingers trembling just slightly. Then she whispered, “You said there’s no turning back.”

He nodded once.

“I think I crossed that line the moment I started wanting to understand you.”