Cassian and I cut through the older section of the palace gardens, gravel giving way to packed earth beneath a canopy of heavy branches. It’s quiet out here—private enough that the palace feels distant.

“Remember that childhood friend of yours we discussed before?” I ask, trying my best to sound casual.

Cassian’s expression shifts—subtle, but immediate.

“Alaric,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he exhales, already resigned. “What about him.”

We pass beneath an old tree, its branches heavy with leaves.

He glances at me, reading tone more than words. “You don’t bring him up casually,” he adds. “You bring him up when you’re about to say something inconvenient.”

I smile. He’s not wrong.

A beat. Then, quieter: “If this is about last night, I already told myself not to ask.”

“Time out.” I stop walking and turn to him abruptly. “First. I didn’t say his name for a reason. Second, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing happened last night.” My expression is lethal.

Cassian stops immediately. His jaw tightens just a fraction as he takes in my expression, lethal and unmistakably serious.

“…All right,” he says evenly. “Then I misread.”

He lifts his hands slightly, palms open. “And you didn’t say his name because you didn’t want it said. I hear you.”

He studies my face, careful now.

“But don’t mistake me,” Cassian adds, voice low and controlled. “I don’t gossip about him. I protect him. Including from things he doesn’t want exposed.”

He holds my gaze, steady. “So. What did you want to say?”

“Nothing.” I shrug, going back to my previous lax meander. “I just wanted to talk about what it’s like having that kind of friendship.”

Cassian watches me for a step longer, then falls back into pace beside me as if the moment never sharpened.

“All right,” he says. His voice is looser now, but not careless. “That I can talk about.”

The path bends, gravel giving way to packed earth. The gardens here are older—less manicured. Roots push up through the soil. The kind of place that’s allowed to be imperfect.

“It’s… steady,” he continues after a moment. “That kind of friendship. Annoyingly so. You fight. You leave things unsaid. You come back anyway.” A faint huff of breath. “You always know where the other stands, even when you don’t agree.”

He glances at me, just once. “It’s knowing someone will be there when everything else falls apart. Not because they have to. Because they decided a long time ago.”

His gaze returns forward. “Why?”

“Have you two ever had to survive war together?”

The question almost seems irrelevant.  

Cassian’s steps slow a fraction.

“Yes,” he says. “Not this war. Not demons.” His jaw tightens. “Border conflicts. Internal revolts. The kind people pretend aren’t wars because admitting it would be inconvenient.”

He exhales, measured. “We were younger. Too young to be smart about it.”

The path crunches softly underfoot.

“You learn very quickly what someone is made of when you’re bleeding in the same mud,” he adds. “When orders stop making sense. When survival means trusting the person beside you without question.”

A glance, brief but assessing. “You don’t come back from that unchanged. And you don’t replace bonds forged that way.”

Then, quieter:

“Why do you ask?”

I slide a glance his way. “Because even though you said you never thought about it, I can’t help but wonder if he did.” I don’t wait for him to answer. “Where were you last night early evening?”

Cassian stops again—but this time he doesn’t bristle.

He exhales slowly, looking out over the garden instead of at me.

“Early evening?” he repeats. “I was on the west wall. Then the armory. Then the chapel steps—briefly.” A pause. “Alone.”

He turns his head just enough to meet my eyes.

“If you’re asking whether he’s ever wondered what if,” Cassian says quietly, “then yes. Once. A long time ago. We never spoke of it again.”

Another pause, heavier.

“Because some lines, once crossed, don’t uncross cleanly. And because he chose the crown before I ever chose the sword.”

My eyebrows shoot up. But I know better than to dig up details on that bomb he just dropped.

He resumes walking, slower now, giving me space to fall back in step.

“If you’re circling a point,” he adds, calm but perceptive, “you don’t need to protect me from it. I already know what it costs to love someone you can’t keep.”

I eye him curiously. “Is that why you don’t do fleeting trysts?”

Cassian exhales through his nose—half a laugh, half resignation.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why.”

He keeps walking, gaze forward, hands loose at his sides. “Fleeting trysts are… inefficient. You invest just enough to make leaving hurt, but not enough to make staying possible.” A beat. “I don’t see the point.”

We continue walking together, birdsong filling the silence between us.

Then, almost as an afterthought, I ask, "Is the west wall anywhere near the old part of the palace that tends to be deserted?”

He tilts his head slightly. “The west wall overlooks the older wing. The part no one uses much anymore. Storage rooms. Sealed corridors. Windows that don’t get opened because most people down there want to avoid being seen.”

He glances at me now, eyes sharp but not accusatory.

Ah, so he saw us after all.

I take fast strides toward him, forcing Cassian to step back abruptly until his back hits a tree. I slam my hand against the tree trunk just to the side of his head. He may have eight years on me, but I’m not short. I corner him against the tree and stare into his beautiful steel-blue eyes.

He looks down at me, close enough now that I can see the tiny crease between his brows, the way his breath changes—not panicked, not angry. Aware.

“Cass.” I say his name the way a lover might, low and full of promise. “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Isn’t that right?”

Cassian stills—but he doesn’t freeze.

He lifts one hand—not to push me away, but to rest it lightly against my wrist where it braces the trunk. Grounding. Steady.

“That saying,” he says quietly, steel-blue eyes holding mine, “is very convincing to people who don’t have to live with the aftermath.”

A pause. Close. Charged.

“But,” he adds, honest and unflinching, “that doesn’t make it wrong.”

His thumb shifts once, almost absentminded, against my wrist.

“I chose restraint because it kept things intact,” Cassian continues. “Not because I was afraid to feel.”

The garden hums around us, indifferent witnesses to a moment that could tip either way.

“So tell me,” he murmurs, calm and searching, “are you arguing philosophy… or making a point?”

I search his face. “I don’t know. That saying has always pissed me off too.” I step back from him, crossing my arms and staring up at the tree. “But it’s the unfortunate truth of my reality. Because if I never tried to love, then I’d never get to love. Ever.”

I level my gaze back on him. “I think people like you who have the luxury to choose piss me off more. The people who expect to come back from war. The people who know they can choose a love they’ll never lose.”

The words hang there—uglier once they’re out.

Cassian doesn’t argue.

That almost makes it worse.

I turn before he can answer and push through the hedges, branches snapping softly against my sleeves.

Leaves whisper as I cut deeper into the greenery. The palace fades behind me—stone, duty, stability—all of it swallowed by shade and damp earth.

I know I’m not being fair.

That doesn’t make it untrue.

Sunlight fractures through the canopy overhead, bright and unreachable.

I don’t get to expect “after.”

I get now.

And then I go home.