The air cools as night settles in. A light breeze moves through the broken roof, carrying the smell of damp earth and old ash. Clouds drift overhead, thin enough to let moonlight through in pale bands.

Cassian drags fallen pews into a loose semicircle near the altar ruins, positioning them to block drafts. Bedrolls are laid out on the least-cracked stone, packs used to level uneven spots. Cloaks come off and double as blankets.

Rook claims a higher perch—half a collapsed choir loft—where he can see vectors of approach. He ties a thin line with bells scavenged from debris, stretched low across the nave. Subtle. Audible.

Cassian takes the ground nearest the main door, back to stone, sword within reach.

I set up near the altar and flip through the white leather tome for anything that might be relevant.

The pages are thin, stiff with age, ink browned but legible.

Most of the early sections are theoretical: schisms within the Radiant Accord, debates over whether purification requires hierarchy or intent. Marginal notes crowd the edges, some crossed out, others emphasized hard enough to tear the page.

A few entries stand out as I flip deeper.

One chapter is marked with a pressed strip of faded ribbon.

“On Those Who Refused Ordination.”

It describes priests, acolytes, and lay-faithful who rejected centralized doctrine during previous cycles. They travel without temples. Conduct rites in homes, caves, ruins. No vestments. No formal sanction.

The final page isn’t written in ink at all.

It’s pressed into the parchment, as if traced hard enough to scar the paper:

When the church burns, faith moves.

The book closes easily in my hands and I toss it to the side unceremoniously. Then I eye Cassian across the way.

“Hey.” I say abruptly. “Tell me about yourself.”

Cassian looks up from where he’s sharpening his blade, pauses, then sets the whetstone aside.

He considers me for a moment, deciding where to start.

“Born in the lower city,” he says. “Same year as Alaric. My mother was his wetnurse.”

A pause.

“I was the loud kid,” he adds. “He was the quiet one who watched everything.”

He leans back against the stone, one knee drawn up. Firelight catches the edge of his armor.

“I trained early. Guard academies, border skirmishes, the usual mess. Got promoted faster than I liked.” A faint huff. “Turns out surviving people older and meaner than you looks impressive on paper.”

His gaze flicks back to me. Curious now.

“That enough?”

I eye him. Taking in his face. His armor. His blade. The way his hands move.

“Do you sleep in that armor?”

Cassian snorts.

“Most nights? No.” He taps the edge of his breastplate. “On the road, sometimes. In places like this—” he glances around the ruined church “—yeah. I loosen it. That’s it.”

He rolls one shoulder, metal shifting softly. “You get used to the weight. Stops feeling like armor after a while. Just feels like… yourself.”

His eyes flick up to me. Brief. Assessing. Not defensive.

“Why?”

I shrug. Trying to look nonchalant.

“I dunno. Just looks suffocating.” I fidget with the edge of the book, slightly dusty on the ground next to me. “Did you and Alaric grow up close?”

“It can be,” he says. “You learn when to take it off. And when not to.”

At my question, he pauses again—longer this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “Close.”

He rests his forearms on his raised knee, gaze on the low firelight instead of me.

“Same lessons. Same sparring yards. Same mistakes.” A brief huff of a smile. “I learned how to fight. He learned how to listen. We traded notes.”

He glances up at me. “You don’t survive court without someone who knows you before the crown. And you don’t survive battle without someone who believes you’ll come back.”

The night settles around the ruins.

Rook shifts above, quiet, alert.

“Sounds romantic.” I say. I flip through another old book nearby, totally nonchalant-like. Then I peek up at Cassian, catching his eye. “Was it?”

Cassian lets out a quiet laugh—short, surprised—and shakes his head.

“Gods, no,” he says. “Not like that.”

He pauses, then adds, more thoughtful than defensive, “It was… loyal. Complicated. We were boys before either of us knew what we’d become.” A shrug. “That kind of closeness gets mistaken for romance a lot.”

His gaze meets mine when I peek up. Holds for a beat.

“If you’re asking whether I’ve ever looked at him and wondered what if—” He exhales through his nose. “—no. I’ve wondered whether I’d die for him. Answer’s always been yes.”

I blink at him.

“Not once?” I ask. “All those years. That closeness. You never even wondered?”

He laughs under his breath, then shifts, elbow resting on his knee, posture easy but attentive. “We didn’t grow up alone. We grew up watched. Trained. Corrected. There wasn’t much room for wondering.”

A beat.

“That kind of intimacy you’re talking about?” he continues. “It came later. With other people. People who weren’t the future king.”

His eyes stay on mine this time—steady, unembarrassed.

“I love Alaric,” he says plainly. “But not in a way that confuses me.”

Then, dryly: “Also, if I’d ever tried something, he’d have talked himself out of it for three days and then apologized.”

From above, Rook’s voice drifts down, amused. “That tracks.”

Cassian glances up. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

Rook hums. “I was. Then this got interesting.”

Cassian looks back to me. One brow lifts.

“So,” he says. “What’s the angle here?”

I shrug and tear a twig apart between my fingers, tossing the pieces into the fire.

“Did you give him your knight’s oath?”

Cassian goes still.

“Yes,” he says, watching me carefully. “I swore it at seventeen.”

He reaches for his blade, runs a thumb along the spine.

“The oath binds my life to his protection.” He says. “And his to mine.”

Firelight shifts across his face when he looks back at me.

“Not obedience, but trust, responsibility. And when everything else gets loud,” he says quietly, “I know exactly what I’m for.”

Above us, Rook shifts and then goes still again.

The ruined church settles into night—stone cooling, wind whispering through broken glass.

I lean back onto my bedroll and stare up through the broken ceiling.

“I’ve never had anything like that,” I say. “Something permanent.”

A pause.

“It sounds… nice.”

I hesitate, then add, softer, “I’m not really allowed to form attachments like that.” I frown. “Or maybe… I just don’t know how.”

I glance over at him across the fire. “Sounds kind of romantic.”

My gaze drifts back to the sky. I count the moons.

“Knowing someone will wait for you,” I say. “Sounds nice.”

Cassian doesn’t answer right away.

The fire pops softly between us. Above, clouds slide past the broken ceiling, thin enough to let the moons show—pale, distant.

He shifts, then settles back against the stone, armor creaking quietly.

“Knights aren’t romantic,” he says at last. “They’re practical.”

A pause.

“But,” he adds, more quietly, “having someone who assumes you’ll return… yeah. That part’s good.”

He still doesn’t look at me. Jaw loose. Voice steady.

“You don’t sound like someone who can’t form attachments,” he continues. “You sound like someone who’s learned what they cost.”

“I didn’t mean romantic like love,” I say, glancing over. “But when you talk like that…” I roll onto my side, propping my head up, studying him through the firelight. “You sound like a hopeless romantic.” I grin. “So, then—girls or guys?”

Cassian exhales a short laugh, shaking his head.

“Hopeless?” he says. “No. Selective.”

He shifts slightly, firelight catching the line of his jaw, the worn edge of his armor. When he looks back at me, it’s open. Unembarrassed.

“Guys,” he says. “Sometimes women. Learned a few things the hard way.”

A beat.

“And before you ask—no, I don’t pine. I don’t fall for people who don’t know what they want.” His mouth quirks faintly. “I don’t have the patience.”

He holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then looks back to the fire.

“But I like honesty. And I like people who won’t disappear after one night.”

“Hmm… shame. Honestly, you’re super my type.” I roll onto my back and tuck my hands under my head. “But alas, I’m destined to be a fleeting presence in this world. And I’d hate to break your heart.” I wink at him.

Cassian snorts, shaking his head. “Tragic. I’ll survive.”

He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks amused—relaxed in a way he hadn’t been earlier.

“I’ll just have to keep pining after the prince one-sidedly, then. Maybe when I defeat the demon king he’ll grant me a kiss as my thank you gift.”

I pause a moment, remembering how cute the prince was with that blush running up his neck.

“Say—how long would you say we have to defeat the demon king? Three months? Six?”

“At your current pace?” he says. “If you’re lucky. Six months.”

Rook’s voice drifts down from above, dry. “That’s the optimistic estimate.”

Cassian continues, matter-of-fact. “The cycle’s already moving. Corruption spreads faster once it roots. Borders fail first. Then food. Then trust.”

He glances toward the broken window, at the night sky beyond.

“Three months to stop it from becoming irreversible,” he adds. “Six to kill it outright—if the right pieces fall into place.”

“Six months….” I say.

The fire crackles low as the conversation thins and the night settles around us.

I stare up through the broken ceiling and do the math—not on the demon king, but on people. On how fast you get used to voices. To shared watches. To the quiet assumption that someone will be there when you wake up.

Six months? That’s just long enough to make things complicated…

I’d better finish this up in four.