The rosy light from the vault chamber spilled into the narrow passage like spilled wine, warm and inviting, completely at odds with the cold stone pressing against their shoulders. Caelan stepped through first, the Heartstone fragments in his pouch singing a soft duet that vibrated up his spine. The chamber beyond was vast, ceiling lost in shadow, walls covered in massive murals that seemed to breathe under the pulsing rose-gold glow. Figures towered there—ancient warriors locked in eternal combat, lovers entwined beneath wyrmbeast wings, a single massive crystal at the center of every scene, radiating light like a captured heart.
Thorne followed close behind, his armor scraping faintly against the stone. He stopped short, blue eyes widening as he took in the murals. "These are older than the Order," he murmured, voice hushed with something close to reverence. "Older than the guilds. I've only heard stories."
Caelan drifted closer to the nearest wall, fingers brushing the painted stone. The colors were impossibly vivid—crimson cloaks, emerald eyes, golden hearts. One mural showed two men facing each other across a battlefield, swords lowered, gazes locked in a moment that looked suspiciously like surrender. He felt Thorne step up beside him, close enough that their arms brushed. The contact sent a shiver racing down his spine.
Eros popped into existence right between their faces, wings fluttering with manic excitement. "Look at that! The Goddess's own propaganda. Two warriors about to drop their swords and drop trou. Very on-brand." He spun, pointing at the crystal in the mural. "And that, boys, is the Heartstone. Amplifies what's already there—love, hate, lust, regret. Whatever's buried deepest gets dragged screaming into the light."
Caelan shot the spirit a warning glance. "Tone it down before you scare him off." Thorne, oblivious to the commentary, reached out and traced the painted line of a sword with one scarred finger. "If this is real," he said quietly, "then the Heartstone isn't just a weapon. It's… truth."
"Truth," Caelan echoed, voice softer than he intended. He turned to face Thorne fully, the rosy light painting both of them in shades of rose and gold. "Scariest thing in the world, isn't it?"
Thorne met his gaze, steady and searching. "What truth are you afraid of, thief?"
Eros landed on Caelan's shoulder, voice dropping to a delighted whisper. "Ooh, he's fishing. And look at your Love Points, darling—creeping up like a cat stalking cream. You're at forty-two now. That little brush of arms just earned you eight. Keep staring at him like that and we might hit triple digits before sunrise."
Caelan ignored the spirit, though his pulse betrayed him, hammering loud enough he was sure Thorne could hear it. "I'm afraid of the same thing you are," he said. "That once the truth is out, there's no going back."
Thorne's hand lifted, hesitated, then settled lightly on Caelan's shoulder—the same shoulder Eros was currently occupying. The spirit squeaked and zipped upward, muttering something about "third-wheel trauma." Thorne didn't seem to notice. His thumb brushed the edge of Caelan's collarbone, slow and deliberate. "And if there is no going back?"
Caelan's breath caught. The air between them felt thick, electric, scented with dust and roses. "Then we deal with what comes next," he whispered. "Together."
Eros swooped down again, voice gleeful. "Together! Did you hear that? That's the magic word. Love Points just jumped another twelve—fifty-four total! You're practically glowing, you hopeless romantic disaster."
Thorne's other hand rose, cupping the side of Caelan's jaw with surprising gentleness. His thumb traced the sharp line of cheekbone, then paused at the corner of Caelan's mouth. "You're bleeding again," he murmured, thumb coming away red.
Caelan managed a crooked smile. "Hazard of the profession."
Thorne's gaze darkened. "I should have killed you the first night."
"But you didn't," Caelan said softly. "And here we are."
Here we are—trapped in a chamber of ancient truths, inches apart, breathing the same air, hearts hammering in perfect, terrifying sync. The murals watched them, silent witnesses to a story that had been painted long before either of them was born.
Eros hovered above them, wings slowing to a reverent flutter. "Fifty-eight points now," he whispered, almost tender. "You're doing it, darling. You're really doing it."
Thorne leaned in—just a fraction—until their foreheads nearly touched. "What are we doing?" he asked, voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to hope.
Caelan closed the last whisper of distance, lips brushing Thorne's jaw in the barest ghost of a kiss. "Falling," he breathed. "And I'm not sorry."
The Heartstone fragments sang louder, brighter, their light flaring across the murals in a cascade of rose and gold. Somewhere deep in the stone, something ancient stirred, approving.
Eros let out a delighted squeal, spinning in wild circles. "Sixty-four! We're cooking with wyrmfire now! Keep going, you beautiful idiots—history is watching!"
Thorne's hand slid to the nape of Caelan's neck, fingers threading into dark hair. He didn't kiss him—not yet—but the promise of it hung between them, heavy and sweet as summer rain. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Neither am I."
The chamber glowed brighter, the murals coming alive in flickering light. Two men stood in the heart of truth, no longer enemies, not quite lovers, but something gloriously, dangerously in between.
And the dungeon, ancient and patient, smiled.