Caelan couldn’t stop thinking about that smirk. That irritating gleam in those striking blue eyes. He paced the length of his quarters, restless, his thoughts consumed. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. All he saw, again and again, was that damn smile.

The door creaked open. Elias stepped in, his fire-red hair catching the dim light, making him stand out like a flame in the dark. His sharp green eyes found Caelan immediately.

“Caelan? You’re usually asleep by now. It’s past one,” Elias said, concern threading his voice.

Caelan grunted, dismissive. “Not sleepy. Saw anything?”

Elias shook his head. “Nothing unusual. An apartment caught fire—faulty wiring, apparently.” He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “When will people learn to turn off their damn dryers?”

He dropped onto the couch in their shared living room, the lamplight catching the pale tone of his skin and the burn scars that still marred his fingers.

But Caelan wasn’t listening. His chest felt too tight, his pulse hammering with an ache he didn’t want to name. I need to see him. Lysar.

He moved toward the door without a word.

“Where are you going?” Elias asked, frowning.

Caelan glanced back over his shoulder, voice low, rough, almost a growl.
“Out. Don’t follow.”

The city was restless even at this hour. The neon washed the cracked pavement in sickly reds and greens, and the hum of machinery echoed like a heartbeat under the streets. Caelan moved quickly, head down, hood pulled low. The kingdom might celebrate him as their shining Hero, but here, in the underbelly of the city, that title meant nothing.

And tonight, he didn’t want it to.

He wanted him.

The thought burned through him, sharper than any blade. That smirk—that cruel, knowing twist of lips—haunted him. Those eyes, so blue they cut through shadow like ice, wouldn’t leave his mind. Lysar had looked at him differently than anyone ever had. Not with reverence. Not with fear. With defiance. With something like amusement.

Caelan’s boots scuffed against damp asphalt as he walked deeper into the maze of alleys. The air grew colder, the hum of the city shifting to silence, broken only by the dripping of pipes and the occasional whisper of rats scattering out of sight. He clenched his fists, every nerve on edge.

I shouldn’t be here.

He thought it again and again, but his feet carried him forward anyway.

The streets narrowed. Brick buildings leaned into one another like conspirators, their windows dark, their fire escapes rusting into ruin. Graffiti curled across the walls—sigils, warnings, names scratched out as if erased from memory. This was Lysar’s territory, Caelan knew it instinctively. A place no soldier of the kingdom dared enter.

And yet here he was.

He stopped at the mouth of a long, shadowed alley. His breath clouded faintly in the cold. Something about this place tugged at him, familiar in a way he couldn’t explain. His pulse quickened, heat rising under his skin.

He’s close.

Caelan pulled his hood lower and stepped inside. The alley stretched on, narrowing into a corridor between towering buildings. Faint light spilled from a half-broken streetlamp, painting the cracked concrete in pale yellow. His boots echoed too loudly, and he forced himself to slow his pace, to move like a hunter, like he belonged here.

The scent hit him first—smoke, faint iron, and something bitter he couldn’t place. Magic, he realized, tasting it on his tongue like ash. Lysar’s presence lingered here.

And then he saw it.

A battered metal door at the alley’s end, scarred with scratches, dented as if someone had tried to break it once and failed. To anyone else, it was just another forgotten entrance to a condemned building. But to Caelan, it felt alive, thrumming faintly with dark energy.

He hesitated, heart hammering. This was reckless, dangerous, beyond foolish. If Lysar caught him—

That’s what you want, isn’t it? whispered a voice in his head.

Caelan swallowed hard, gloved hand pressing against the door. It was warm beneath his palm, unnaturally so. He pushed. The hinges creaked but didn’t resist.

The base was silent inside, shadows swallowing the narrow hall. The air smelled faintly of smoke and damp stone, a heavy, lived-in presence. Caelan slipped through the corridor, footsteps light, senses sharp. His light magic stirred at the edges of his skin, begging to flare, but he kept it buried. No glow. No noise. He couldn’t risk alerting him.

The hall opened into a wide room, dimly lit by a single oil lamp on a crooked table. Papers were scattered everywhere—maps, sketches, scribbled notes in a language Caelan didn’t recognize. Weapons leaned against the wall: blades, crossbows, even a battered shield cracked clean down the center.

But it wasn’t the clutter that stopped him cold.

It was the figure sleeping on the narrow cot in the corner.

Lysar.

His white hair spilled across the thin pillow, stark against the dark fabric beneath him. His cloak, black and tattered, was thrown carelessly over a chair, leaving him in only a rough shirt and trousers. Even in sleep, he looked dangerous, scars cutting pale lines across his skin, jaw tight as though he fought battles even in his dreams.

Caelan’s chest tightened. His throat went dry.

Beautiful.

The word slipped through his mind before he could stop it. Not handsome. Not striking. Beautiful, in that raw, untouchable way that hurt to look at.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing over him. Lysar’s hand twitched in sleep, rough knuckles scarred from countless fights. His breath was steady, but faint—too faint, as if exhaustion had finally forced him into this vulnerable stillness.

Caelan crouched, eyes drinking him in like a starving man. Every detail. Every scar. The faint shadow under his eyes. The slow rise and fall of his chest.

He reached out, fingers trembling, then pulled back sharply. What was he doing? This was madness. He was a Hero. Lysar was the enemy.

And yet…

His hand moved again, softer this time, brushing against white strands of hair that had fallen across Lysar’s face. The touch was feather-light, careful not to wake him. Caelan’s heart thundered, fear and longing tangling in his veins.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned in. His lips ghosted across Lysar’s forehead in the lightest of kisses, barely there, gone as quickly as it happened.

He froze, breath catching. Lysar shifted slightly but didn’t wake.

Relief and panic surged through him at once.

Caelan drew back, standing abruptly, chest heaving. He had to leave. Now. Before Lysar stirred. Before this spiraled into something he couldn’t explain, couldn’t take back.

He turned and slipped back into the corridor, the silence of the base pressing down on him. His pulse still raced, his lips still burned from that fleeting, stolen touch.

By the time he reached the street again, the city lights felt too bright, the air too sharp.

But even as he walked away, one thought echoed in his mind, relentless, unshakable.

I’ll see you again, Lysar.