The camp was quiet after midnight, only the low crackle of dying fires and the distant howl of wind over the ridge.
Star couldn't sleep. Again.
He slipped from the warm furs of Elandor's cot, careful not to wake the king, and pulled on a loose shirt. The cold bit at his bare feet as he padded to the small table where the lamp still burned low. On it lay the ancient scroll the royal archivist had delivered that afternoon: the complete, unedited prophecy, sealed for three hundred years and only just broken open at Elandor's command.
Star unrolled it with trembling fingers.
He had read pieces before, snippets that spoke of a consort "born of earth and sky," of a crown "cleansed by humble blood."
Tonight, for the first time, he read the final stanza.
When the crown is heaviest and the realm bleeds,
the star born beneath open sky shall rise.
He will hold the king's heart in calloused hands,
and the king will lay his life upon that heart.
One shall fall so the realm may stand.
One shall break so the realm may mend.
Only in surrender is victory found.
Star's breath left him in a rush.
One shall fall.
One shall break.
He didn't hear Elandor wake until strong arms slid around his waist from behind and a sleep-rough voice murmured against his neck.
"You're shaking."
Star tried to roll the parchment closed, but Elandor's hand stopped him, gentle but firm.
"Let me see."
Star let go. The scroll stayed open between them, damning words glowing in the lamplight.
Elandor read in silence. When he reached the final lines, his arms tightened until it hurt.
"No," he said, voice raw. "I won't allow it."
Star turned in the circle of his arms, pressing his forehead to Elandor's. "You don't get to decide prophecy, Eli."
"I decide my own fate," Elandor said fiercely. "And I decide yours. I'm not trading you for the kingdom. I'd burn it first."
The words cracked something open in Star's chest. He cupped Elandor's face—strong lines, tired eyes, the faint scar along the jaw from training—and felt tears rise he couldn't stop.
"I'm scared," Star whispered, the confession scraping his throat raw. "I've never said that out loud. Not once. Not when the guards dragged me from home, not when Varyn tried to poison me, not when arrows flew at my window. But this… this says one of us dies, Eli. And I can't… I can't lose you."
Elandor's eyes glistened, bright and wet. He didn't try to hide it.
"I'm terrified too," he admitted, voice breaking. "Every night since I put that crown on my head, I've been afraid. Afraid I'm not enough. Afraid I'll fail everyone. But the worst fear—the one that wakes me gasping—is the thought of a world without you in it. You're the only thing that ever made the crown feel worth wearing."
Star's tears spilled over. He pressed his lips to Elandor's—salty, trembling, desperate. Not lust this time. Just need. Just anchoring.
"I was content to die a farmer," Star said against his mouth. "Quiet, small, forgotten. Then you found me again, and suddenly I want years. Decades. I want mornings waking up to your stupid smile and nights falling asleep with your heartbeat under my ear. I want to grow old and gray and argue about whose turn it is to milk the cow we'll never own because we're too busy running a kingdom. I want everything, Eli. And this scroll says I might not get it."
Elandor made a broken sound and pulled Star down to the rug in front of the brazier, wrapping them both in the heavy fur blanket. They clung like children afraid of the dark.
"I won't let it happen," Elandor said into Star's hair, over and over, as if saying it enough could rewrite fate. "I'll find another way. I'll give the crown to someone else, I'll abdicate, I'll—"
"You won't." Star's voice cracked but held steady. "Because you're a good king. And I love you too much to let you throw that away."
The words hung between them—love—spoken for the first time, raw and unguarded.
Elandor's breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to look into Star's eyes, searching.
"Say it again," he whispered.
"I love you," Star repeated, tears sliding into his ears. "I love you so much it hurts. And that's why, if the prophecy demands a price… I'll pay it. To keep you safe. To keep the kingdom safe."
"No." Elandor's voice broke completely. He pressed his face into Star's neck, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "Please, Star. Don't ask me to live in a world you're not in. I wouldn't survive it."
They held each other until the lamp burned out, until the brazier cooled, until the first pale hint of dawn crept under the tent flap. No more words. Just breath and tears and the fierce, desperate grip of two people who had finally said the thing they'd both been carrying alone.
When morning came, they would put armor back on—literal and otherwise.
But in that small pocket of darkness, they were only Star and Eli, two boys who had once promised forever beneath an oak tree, now holding that promise like it was the only thing keeping the world from ending.