The banquet hall was quiet, the flickering candlelight reflecting off polished marble floors, casting shadows that seemed to reach for the past. Cael stood near the throne, poised, as always, but his gaze was elsewhere—narrowed, tense, as though he were seeing something only he could perceive. His hand twitched at his side, betraying a memory that had been sleeping, yet never gone.
Illyen approached, smiling politely, unaware of the invisible weight pressing down on the crown prince. A servant carried a tray of wine, glasses gleaming, catching the golden light like tiny captured suns.
"Your Highness," Illyen said, raising one of the glasses with careful elegance. "A toast to your health."
Something inside Cael snapped. His chest constricted, and a cold dread crawled up his spine. His young self—the six-year-old who had faced an impossible choice—screamed silently in his mind.
Before Illyen could even touch the stem, Cael's hand shot out, gripping his wrist with a force that made him start. The hall seemed to freeze. Servants froze mid-step, candles wavered, and even the distant music of the court seemed suspended.
"Cael?" Illyen's voice was calm but laced with confusion. "It's only wine…"
Cael's jaw tightened, pale fingers brushing against Illyen's hand as if anchoring himself. "Don't… please," he whispered, voice breaking. "Let me… let me drink it first."
The words hung in the air, trembling with fear and memory. Illyen's brows knitted, and he studied Cael's face—the sharp features usually so composed now haunted, almost childlike in their panic. There was a depth of pain there he didn't fully understand, yet it made his chest ache.
Something stirred in Illyen—an instinctive knowledge, unspoken, that this was not mere hesitation. There was history here, a shadow older than either of them remembered consciously. And as Cael's hand lingered, tremors of the past whispered between them: a small hand trembling over a cup, a faint scent of almonds in the air, a red thread of liquid trailing over white marble.
Illyen's stomach tightened. In a flicker of memory—fragmented, fleeting—he saw a young Cael, face pale with fear, small hands clutching a cup that was never meant to hold wine. And then he remembered something else: himself, laughing softly, standing too close to a choice he did not understand, yet had made.
"You carry it," Illyen murmured, voice soft but steady, letting his gaze lock with Cael's. "Even now… even after all these years."
Cael's hand shook, the grip on Illyen's wrist tightening almost violently. "I always have," he admitted. "Even when I was too small to understand. And yet… I survived. Somehow. And I… I cannot let you bear it too."
Illyen's breath caught. A flash of understanding—the memory, the weight of it, the secret sacrifice—rose like a tide, brushing against his consciousness. He didn't yet know the full truth, but he could feel the pain, fear, and love intertwined like threads pulling at their souls.
The hall seemed to shrink around them, the noise fading to a dull hum, until only the two of them existed in the space. Illyen's fingers slowly wrapped over Cael's, grounding him, anchoring him in the present even as the past threatened to pull him under.
A rustle in the corner drew their attention. Lysa appeared, eyes sharp but soft, as if she had known something of this invisible storm. "The palace hasn't seen you like this… not since—well, not ever," she said lightly, though her gaze lingered on Cael, reading the tremor in his posture.
Illyen let out a small breath, leaning slightly toward Cael, feeling the warmth of his presence. "It's… more than just what we remember," he said quietly. "The threads… they're pulling at us. Not just memories, but feelings… grief, fear, love. All tangled."
"Yes," Cael whispered, gaze dropping to the wineglass still in Illyen's hand. "It's the past reaching forward… demanding acknowledgment."
The memory surged then, uncontrollable and vivid. Cael was six again, standing before the Emperor, forced into a choice no child should face. Two cups. One would end a life, the other would deceive death itself. His small fingers shook as he lifted the cup, the bitter scent choking him, the crimson thread spilling over marble, and a soft, serene presence beside him—a sacrifice he could not yet name—choosing to bear the cost alone.
Cael's chest tightened, heart hammering as the present and past collided. He pressed a trembling hand to Illyen's wrist. "No one else… will bear this for me," he said, voice low, trembling. "Not again. Never again."
Illyen's eyes widened, understanding dawning in a flicker of clarity. "Cael… I…" He faltered, realizing the depth of the memory surfacing in front of him, and yet unable to speak it fully. The sense of a shared past—of love and sacrifice—wrapped around them like a thread, invisible but undeniable.
Cael exhaled shakily, drawing Illyen close, his forehead brushing against his temple. "It is not just a memory," he said, voice breaking. "It is… us. All we have lost, all we have endured… and yet… we survive. Together."
The banquet resumed around them, muted and distant, as if the hall itself respected the sacredness of their shared past. Illyen let himself be held, feeling the weight of grief and love pulse through him, each beat a reminder that even across time, some bonds never break.
He thought of the cup, the poison, the sacrifice. He did not yet understand all, but he felt the magnitude—the depth of what Cael had carried alone, and the courage that had preserved them both.
"I don't fully understand it yet," Illyen whispered, "but… I feel it. I feel everything you've carried, everything we… we were."
Cael's hand closed lightly over his. "And you never will have to carry it alone. Not now. Not ever."
For a moment, the hall seemed suspended, time folding upon itself. The memory of the Night of the Gilded Chalice lingered like a shadow—painful, bitter, yet threaded with love so deep it defied understanding. And for the first time, the thread did not feel suffocating. It was a bridge—a connection between past and present, memory and heart, Cael and Illyen, bound across lifetimes.
"Together," Illyen breathed.
"Always," Cael echoed.
And in that fragile, glowing moment, the past and present wove themselves into a single truth: no matter the cost, no matter the grief, no matter the threads of memory that haunted them, they would face it side by side, and nothing could sever what had been forged in sacrifice and love.