The fire had burned low by the time she reached for the tea.
Isolde poured two cups—one with honey, one without—and moved carefully, her movements practiced, deliberate. Alaric sat back on the bed, quiet, watching her in the low glow of hearth's light. He hadn't spoken since she'd finished telling him about Callen. But he hadn't moved away either.
She handed him the plain cup, keeping the sweetened one for herself.
Their fingers brushed.
It was nothing at first. Bare skin. Bare warmth.
But the moment stretched.
Her hand grazed his, and something sparked—not heat, not pain, but a low hum, like the earth recognizing the sky. Like her body remembered something her mind had not yet dared to name.
Alaric froze.
So did she.
He didn't drop the cup. Didn't flinch.
But his breath hitched. Just once.
And his eyes—gods, those eyes—searched hers like he was reading prophecy in the green of them.
"Did you feel that?" she asked softly.
"I've felt it before," he said, just as softly. "But never with someone who lived."
She blinked.
He looked down at the tea in his hand, then back to her. "I remember dying," he murmured. "But I don't remember being touched like that."
She stepped back slowly, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly cold.
He didn't pursue.
"I don't know what this is," she admitted. "I don't know what to do with it."
"You don't have to do anything," he said. "It's just… there."
The hum hadn't left her skin. It lingered like the echo of a bell long after it had stopped ringing.
"Was it like that?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. "When you first knew you were cursed?"
Alaric didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "No. That felt like being burned from the inside out. This... feels like remembering what warmth is."
Her throat tightened.
Silence again. But it wasn't empty.
It was full of questions they weren't ready to ask. Full of a closeness neither had chosen but both were now tethered to.
Finally, she cleared her throat and sat down across from him, sipping her tea in silence. Her fingers curled tight around the cup.
He watched her for a moment longer. Then—without a word—he reached out and gently brushed her hand again. Just once.
No pressure.
No demand.
But when he pulled away, she found herself aching to feel it again.
They drank in silence for a while after that, the warmth of the tea steadying their hands more than their thoughts.
Alaric's eyes drifted toward her again—unable not to, even when he tried.
She was facing the fire, knees tucked beneath her, cradling the cup between both hands like it was something sacred. The flames caught the pale strands of her hair and lit them gold, but he could see now, in the steadier glow, that her hair wasn't blonde at all.
It was white.
Not aged. Not bleached by sun. Born-white, like new snow under starlight, like something the Moon might've crafted herself if she'd been lonely enough.
It made her look ethereal—almost not of this world.
But her face told a different story.
There was warmth in the freckles that danced over her nose and cheeks, in the softness of her mouth, the subtle pink of her lips. Her green eyes were sharp, yes, but tired in the way only healers ever were: always carrying someone else's pain. Her lashes were long and dark, a contrast that made her eyes seem even more watchful in stillness.
She was, without question, the most beautiful thing he'd seen in this life—or the last.
And yet it wasn't just that.
It was the way she sat. Guarded and unguarded all at once. Like a girl who had been burned by love and still chose to light candles. Like someone who had spent years being mistaken for fragile and now knew exactly how strong she wasn't allowed to look.
Isolde Silvanne was not soft.
She was wild in quiet places.Sharp in the ways a blade forgets it's dangerous.And already, she was beginning to press against something inside him he'd long since buried.
Something older than want.Older than the curse.Older, maybe, than even he was.
She must have felt his gaze. She turned to look at him, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips.
"What?" she asked.
Alaric took a long sip of tea, holding her eyes.
"Just wondering," he murmured, "if the Moon always made things this dangerous when she made them beautiful."
She blinked.
Then looked away, cheeks flushed with warmth—but she didn't answer.
And he didn't press.
Because some truths didn't need to be spoken.
Not when they were already felt.