Reid knelt down and started picking up the shattered glass fragments that fell from Rucon’s broken glasses.

  Each fragment was hurting his hands, poking and creating small wounds, but Reid knew that was nothing compared to what the two felt, what they fought for, what they lived in that moment.

  Some fragments were big; they were easy to pick and hurt less. Some were small, they were pricking his hand or worse, getting into it.

  Once, they had pieced together a shattered lens in silence — not speaking, simply being. Now they were different, apart from each other.

  Reid thought to himself, “Can they ever be reunited? Would they be what they were if I put them back together?”

  One question stood out above the others: “Would that make them together?”

  Rucon spoke neither elevated nor descended.

  “Thank you, Reid. I know what you want to do, you are thinking of putting them back together, don’t you?”

  He smiled with blithe, his eyes calm, his breath still.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll order another one.”

  It was as if he had read Reid’s mind. But Reid didn’t care about that. The answer was enough for him; he didn’t question, just two words:

  “Thank you.”

  Rucon approached the throne.

  The crown rested beside it — silver catching what little light remained in the chamber, as if reclaiming something that had fled.

  His fingers brushed its edge.

  Thumb. Index. Middle.

  He lifted it slowly.

  Time did not stop — but it thinned.

  The jewels, once dim beneath shadow, answered the light now. Not brightly. Not proudly. Simply present.

  The design was simple. Almost severe.

  Yet the symmetry of it — the untouched perfection of each stone — felt rebellious in its own quiet way.

  It had not cracked.

  It had not bent.

  Whatever else had fractured that day, this had not.

  Rucon turned it once in his hand.

  Then he placed it upon his head.

  It fit.

  “Then it is determined, Sir Corvane. You can leave the chamber if there isn’t anything else you want to contribute.”

  Reid’s expression was spare and true, yet a warmth began to flower in his eyes.

  “No, there isn’t, your highness. I’ll be on my way.”

  King Rucon replied with a proud smile.

  “Good. Summon Sir Baranor Klutz again for me, after leaving.”

  Reid nodded calmly and turned his back toward the double doors that once felt too grand to look up to.

  Before Reid could open the doors, Rucon spoke.

  “And, Reid, take care.”

  Reid didn’t turn back. His hands rested on the handles of the double doors for a singular moment. He didn’t speak, he didn’t gesture.

  He simply continued.

  The double doors opened, and creaking sounds reverberated inside the throne room, but those sounds didn’t feel as immense as they did before.

  Unlike the court where Arttu was sentenced to die.

  Unlike seconds ago, when he felt the burden of simply living.

  Now, the sound was softer.

  Not quite music. But no longer sad.

  Behind the double doors stood three figures.

  Baranor Klutz.

  Arttu Corvane.

  And—

  Emilia.

  Reid did not see the first two.

  Only her.

  Worry shadowed her face. Anxiety trembled at its edges.

  But he saw past them.

  He saw something he had not seen in a long time.

  Her.

  Not the knight’s ally.

  Not the court’s witness.

  Not the anxious girl waiting outside power.

  Just Emilia.

  For him, she outshone the entire castle.

  He stepped forward and pulled her into him, holding her tightly — as if confirming that she was not another thing that might shatter.

  The world is filled with people, each carrying a world of their own. Most move alongside one another without ever crossing.

  But sometimes — rarely — two people look into each other’s eyes and recognize something familiar. Not similarity. Not dependency.

  Recognition.

  And in that recognition, their worlds do not invade.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  They collide.

  That was what happened with Emilia and Reid.

  They did not choose to live inside each other’s lives.

  Their worlds simply collided.

  He loosened his hold first.

  Not fully stepping back — just enough.

  Emilia searched his face, as if waiting for something more.

  He almost gave it.

  Almost.

  But Arttu stood only a few steps away.

  And Reid remembered.

  There were still roads to walk.

  Still weight to carry.

  Still roles that could not be abandoned for warmth — no matter how earned.

  “I’m leaving at dawn,” he said instead.

  Not “I love you.”

  Not “wait for me.”

  Just truth.

  And that truth hurt more than confession.

  Emilia’s eyes began to shimmer — like a cloud heavy with rain, swollen and uncertain.

  But this cloud did not pour.

  It hovered.

  It questioned.

  “Again?”

  The word was small.

  Too small for how much it carried.

  Not accusation.

  Not complaint.

  Just exhaustion wrapped in hope.

  Reid felt it before he answered.

  He, too, had become a cloud — dense, trembling at the edges. The sting gathered behind his eyes, salt waiting for release. But he held it there. If it fell, something inside him might follow.

  He stepped closer.

  Close enough to feel her breath.

  Close enough to see that she was not asking about departure.

  She was asking about distance.

  About waiting.

  About being strong without promise.

  His jaw tightened, but his voice did not waver.

  “Again.”

  No apology.

  No excuse.

  No reassurance, he wasn’t certain he could keep.

  Just truth.

  The kind that doesn’t comfort — but doesn’t lie either.

  Between them, the air thickened.

  Two clouds.

  Neither breaking.

  Both understanding that if one did—the other would follow.

  And he did not look back.

  The corridor felt wider once he was gone.

  Or perhaps only quieter.

  Emilia remained still for a moment, her gaze resting on the empty space Reid had left behind. As if the air there had not yet settled.

  Arttu shifted his weight.

  He did not look at her.

  “We should eat,” Emilia said softly. “You haven’t eaten.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.”

  A pause.

  “…Okay.”

  They began walking.

  Their footsteps echoed lightly against the stone. Not in rhythm. Not entirely apart either.

  The castle felt different now — not oppressive, not welcoming. Just lived in. Servants passed them in muted motion. Torches flickered along the walls. Somewhere distant, metal clinked against metal.

  Neither spoke.

  Emilia clasped her hands behind her back.

  “You stayed,” she said after a while.

  Arttu blinked.

  “In there.”

  He gave a small nod.

  “That matters.”

  A shrug.

  “It wasn’t much.”

  She glanced at him.

  “It was.”

  He didn’t answer.

  They turned a corner. The scent of food drifted faintly through the corridor.

  Emilia tried again.

  “You were steady.”

  He looked ahead.

  Silence.

  “…Reid wasn’t,” she added.

  That made him shift slightly.

  But still no words.

  They walked a few more steps before she asked, almost lightly:

  “Are you angry?”

  A beat.

  “No.”

  She looked at him.

  “Not even a little?”

  His jaw tightened faintly.

  He shook his head once.

  Then, after a second—

  “…Maybe.”

  It was barely audible.

  Emilia slowed slightly, not enough to make it obvious.

  “At him?”

  Another pause.

  “…No.”

  That was true.

  She waited.

  He didn’t continue.

  They reached the staircase leading down toward the dining hall. Light rose from below — warmer, softer, filled with the low murmur of voices.

  As they descended, Emilia spoke gently:

  “You can be upset.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You don’t have to compete.”

  A small crease formed between his brows.

  “I’m not.”

  “I know.”

  They reached the bottom.

  For a moment, he stopped walking.

  Emilia noticed.

  He didn’t look at her.

  His hands hung at his sides, fingers curling slightly inward.

  “…I thought—”

  He stopped.

  She waited.

  He swallowed.

  “…Nothing.”

  She studied him quietly.

  “You thought what?”

  Silence.

  “I thought he’d hug me too.”

  The words fell between them and immediately seemed too small for the corridor that held them.

  Arttu stared straight ahead as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

  For half a heartbeat, Emilia was still.

  Then—

  She laughed.

  Not loudly.

  Not sharply.

  Just a quiet, breathy sound that slipped out before she could stop it.

  Arttu froze.

  His ears flushed faintly red.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, though she was still smiling. “I’m not laughing at you.”

  He didn’t look at her.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It is,” she said gently. “A little.”

  His jaw tightened.

  He looked very much like someone who regretted speaking.

  Emilia softened.

  “It’s just…” she tried to find the words. “You look so serious all the time. And then you say something like that.”

  He said nothing.

  She walked a few steps ahead, then slowed so they were side by side again.

  “It’s not childish,” she added after a moment. “Just honest.”

  He huffed faintly.

  “That’s worse.”

  She smiled to herself.

  They reached the stairs leading down to the dining hall.

  As they descended, she spoke again.

  “You know he doesn’t think about those things.”

  “I know.”

  “He probably didn’t even notice.”

  Arttu’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.

  “…I noticed.”

  “I know you did.”

  They entered the dining hall.

  Warmth greeted them first — light spilling across long wooden tables, steam rising from bowls, quiet laughter threading through the air. The world here felt untouched by crowns and broken glass.

  They found a place near the end of a table.

  Emilia sat.

  Arttu sat across from her.

  For a moment, he didn’t reach for the food.

  She tore a piece of bread and slid it toward him without comment.

  He hesitated.

  Then took it.

  They ate quietly.

  Emilia watched him for a moment — the way he kept his gaze lowered, the way he chewed slowly, thoughtfully.

  “You’re quieter than usual,” she said lightly.

  He glanced up.

  “…Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked back down.

  A pause.

  “…Sorry.”

  She blinked.

  “For what?”

  He shrugged faintly.

  She shook her head, smiling a little.

  “You don’t have to apologize for being you.”

  That earned no reply.

  But his shoulders loosened slightly.

  They continued eating.

  After a while, Emilia poured water into his cup.

  “You were watching him the whole time,” she said.

  Arttu didn’t deny it.

  “…Yeah.”

  “You always do.”

  He didn’t respond.

  The noise of the hall rose and fell around them, but their small corner felt insulated somehow.

  “…He looked tired,” Arttu said after a while.

  “Yes.”

  “He shouldn’t.”

  “No.”

  Silence settled again.

  This one wasn’t strained.

  Just shared.

  Arttu’s gaze drifted toward the hall entrance — toward the corridor that led back to the infirmary.

  Emilia noticed.

  “You’re going to check on him,” she said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  A small nod.

  “…After.”

  They finished eating not long after.

  No dramatic conversation.

  No heavy declarations.

  Just the quiet rhythm of two people sitting across from one another, existing in the same space.

  When they stood and stepped back into the corridor, the air felt cooler.

  Calmer.

  They walked slowly.

  Near the intersection where the path split — one toward the infirmary, one toward the eastern wing — Arttu slowed.

  Not stopping.

  Just… delaying.

  Emilia adjusted the strap of her cloak.

  She studied him for a moment.

  He was trying to look unaffected.

  It didn’t work.

  She nudged his arm lightly with her elbow.

  “Still thinking about it?”

  A pause.

  “…Maybe.”

  She laughed again — softer this time.

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  He frowned faintly.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  They stood there in the corridor’s quiet.

  Torches flickered against stone.

  Distant footsteps echoed somewhere far away.

  Emilia stepped in front of him slightly so he had to meet her eyes.

  “Hey.”

  He did.

  “Take care of Reid, will you?”

  There was no teasing in her voice now.

  No laughter.

  Just something steady.

  Arttu blinked once.

  The embarrassment from earlier faded into something else — something straighter, quieter.

  A purpose.

  “…I will.”

  Simple.

  Certain.

  Emilia nodded.

  “Good.”

  She stepped back.

  “And don’t be angry at him for not hugging you.”

  His ears reddened again.

  “I’m not.”

  She smiled, unconvinced but kind.

  “Mm.”

  She turned to leave, then paused.

  “Arttu?”

  He looked up.

  “It’s okay to want things like that.”

  He didn’t answer.

  But he didn’t look away either.

  That was enough.

  Emilia gave him one last small smile and turned down her corridor.

  Arttu remained standing there for a moment after she disappeared from sight.

  The hallway felt quieter now.

  But not empty.

  He looked toward the infirmary.

  Then he moved.

  Not rushed.

  Not hesitant.

  Just steady.

  And this time—

  There was no childishness in his steps.

  Only intention.