The rain had begun again, soft and insistent, like slender fingers tapping against the windowpane. The room was lit only by a single, narrow lamp, its glow pooling gold upon the weathered pages of the book Hael had set aside. The rest was shadow. It was always in the hush of those hours that the world seemed to lean close, breathing its secrets into the spaces between heartbeats.
Zyrán stood by the window, his reflection a smudge against the glass, his pale skin catching what little light there was. Eighteen winters now, and though his face still held the stubborn curve of boyhood, the planes of his body had sharpened, stretched. Taller now, taller than Hael by half a hand's breadth — though Hael had not changed, not in a single way.
Always the same: hair like sunlit wheat, eyes pale as mist, a face forever poised in the bloom of a man's twenty summers. No creases, no trace of time's steady claim. The years passed and passed, and Hael remained, an immortal anchor amid the churning tides of their small world.
It should have frightened Zyrán more than it did.
"You never forget a birthday, do you?" Zyrán's voice was soft, uncertain, as though testing the shape of it in the dark.
Hael's lips curved, a bare echo of a smile. "It is not a thing meant to be forgotten."
Zyrán turned then, the soft fall of his dark hair brushing his cheek. The lamp caught his green eyes, turning them to storm-lit glass. "I thought… it might be different this year. After everything."
A pause. The rain against the window sounded like whispered confessions.
"I wouldn't let the dark steal this from you, little wyrm," Hael said at last, the old, half-teasing name gentle now, a shield instead of a taunt.
Zyrán swallowed, glancing down at his hands — hands that had outgrown the ones that once clung to Hael's coat, that now could easily catch Hael's wrist and pin it if he wished. And yet, even now, it was Hael who felt the larger, the more vast.
"You haven't changed," Zyrán murmured. "Not a day."
"I was never meant to," Hael said quietly. "That is the burden of what I am."
Zyrán's gaze lifted, something tangled and fierce and aching in it. "I don't know if it's a comfort or a curse."
A muscle in Hael's jaw shifted. "Perhaps both."
And then, without quite meaning to, Zyrán crossed the space between them. He was eye to eye now, or nearly so — and yet in that closeness, it was still Hael who held the greater gravity. His hand rose, cupping the back of Zyrán's head, fingers threading through dark strands. A touch that was tender, yes, but also a tether.
"You are still here," Hael murmured, as though speaking to some unseen thing that circled them both. "Still burning. That is victory enough."
"I wish you wouldn't… look at me like that," Zyrán said, voice breaking on the last word.
"Like what?" Hael asked, though he knew.
"Like you're waiting for me to break."
Hael's palm was warm. "I'm not waiting," he whispered. "I am preventing it."
Zyrán felt something uncoil in his chest then, something long-denied. He wanted to lean into it, to fall. And it terrified him.
Outside, thunder murmured like an ancient god remembering old wars. The storm had gathered itself like a beast.
A sudden knock at the door pulled them both back. Hael's hand slipped away. Zyrán felt its absence like a chill.
It was Aina, leaning heavily against the doorframe, her face pale but composed, the shadows beneath her eyes deep. She held something in her hand — a tiny paper-wrapped parcel, tied with red thread.
"I forgot to give you this," she murmured, her voice frayed. "Your mother left it with me… for your eighteenth."
Zyrán's breath caught. His hands shook as he took it, the paper cool and rough. Inside, a single ring — old, silver, with a feather engraved upon it, its lines so fine it might have been etched with the point of a star.
Aina's gaze flickered to Hael and then away. "She said… you would know when to wear it."
Zyrán held it tightly in his palm. "I… I don't understand."
"You will," Hael murmured, his voice thick with something unspoken.
And for a moment, the room held its breath again.
Outside, the rain fell harder. And somewhere, far beyond the veil of the storm, something watched.