Morning did not arrive so much as it seeped in—thin, reluctant, diluted by cloud and grief. The light that found the room was pale and undecided, resting on the edges of furniture as if unsure it was welcome.
Zyrán woke with the ache still lodged in his chest.
It had not softened with sleep. If anything, it had settled deeper, like a stone dropped into water that never stilled. His lashes were heavy, crusted with the remnants of tears he did not remember shedding. For a moment, he did not move. He listened instead—to the faint hum of the world, to the quiet proof that he was still here.
He became aware of Hael only when he shifted.
Hael sat on the floor beside the bed, back against the frame, knees drawn up loosely, as though he had not trusted himself to sleep far away. His golden hair had fallen forward, catching the weak morning light, and his expression—calm in repose—was carved with something Zyrán had never seen before.
Vigilance.
Not duty. Not distance.
Watchfulness born of fear.
"You didn't leave," Zyrán said, his voice rough, barely sound at all.
Hael's eyes opened at once. Relief passed through them too quickly to be hidden. "No."
There was a pause, heavy but not awkward.
"I thought," Zyrán began, then stopped. He did not know how to finish the sentence. I thought you would disappear.I thought I imagined you.I thought saving me was the end of your task.
Hael rose slowly, careful not to startle him. He sat on the edge of the bed this time, close enough that their knees brushed. Zyrán felt the contact like a quiet shock.
"I stayed," Hael said, simply. "Because you asked me to, even if you didn't know you were asking."
Zyrán looked at him then—really looked. At the unchanging face, the youth that time refused to touch. At the eyes that carried centuries of restraint and one night of terror.
"You were afraid," Zyrán said.
Hael did not deny it.
"Yes."
The admission hung between them, fragile and unprecedented.
"I didn't think angels were allowed to be afraid," Zyrán whispered.
"They aren't," Hael replied. "That's how I knew this mattered."
Silence returned, but it had changed shape. It no longer pressed down. It held.
Zyrán's fingers curled into the blanket, then loosened again. "I don't believe anymore," he said suddenly. "Not in God. Not in promises. Not in the stories my grandmother told."
Hael's jaw tightened—not in judgment, but in something like grief.
"You don't have to believe," he said. "Not yet. Not in anything beyond what you can touch."
Zyrán swallowed. "And what if all I can touch is you?"
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Hael froze.
For a breathless moment, the world balanced on the edge of consequence. Then Hael reached out—not to pull him close, not to claim—but to rest his hand over Zyrán's heart.
It was steady. Alive.
"Then start there," Hael said quietly.
Zyrán leaned forward without thinking. His forehead came to rest against Hael's shoulder. The contact was light, tentative, as though he might pull away at any second.
Hael did not move.
He simply breathed with him.
Outside, the clouds thinned. Somewhere beyond the walls, a day was beginning—not whole, not healed, but possible.
And for the first time since the ashes fell, Zyrán did not feel alone inside the ruin.
Something fragile had survived.
Not faith.
Not certainty.
But a thread—thin as silver, warm as breath—binding him to the one being who had stayed when everything else has gone.