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Chapter 24 - Where the Light Doesn't Burn

The days in Navoris did not march—they meandered, curling into one another like smoke caught beneath stone. Seasons here did not change; only moods did. But within the sanctuary carved into the cliffside, a life began to root itself—slow and unadorned, like moss growing in silence.

Velastra taught Cael how to move without needing to see.

Not in lessons, but in gestures: guiding his hands to carved beams, tapping the rim of the basin twice when water was ready, dragging her fingers along the wall to leave touch echoes he could follow. She never took his hand unless he offered it first. And when she did, it was always with a pause—an invitation, not a rescue.

He could find the fireplace by the scent of juniper logs Orion hoarded like treasure.

He could tell the difference in footsteps now—Velastra's cautious grace, Orion's buoyant swagger, even the lazy rhythm of the wind against the warped shutter near his cot.

Orion claimed the kitchen—or what passed for one in Navoris—with wild confidence and questionable talent.

"Two roots, one fruit," he declared one evening, brandishing a cracked ladle like a blade. "No flame, no divine stirring, and yet—behold! Navorian stew!"

"It's just boiled bark," Cael said dryly.

"Then you're welcome to starve."

Velastra hid a smile behind the rim of her clay cup. They never admitted it aloud, but Orion's relentless cheerfulness was a kind of rebellion against the weight of this place. He told stories often, even when no one asked—of his youth, of festivals in Irithiel, of some girl he once met near the Sunpool Gardens whose name changed every time he remembered her.

"Her name was Elin," he insisted one night, stirring something lumpy and heroic. "Or Esera? No—definitely started with a vowel."

Cael tilted his head. "That narrows it down."

Velastra let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh, and for a moment, their exile felt like a life—not a sentence.

But exile, no matter how softened, still bore its thorns. Cael woke one morning, breathing hard, dreams clawing at the inside of his skull. His hand groped for the edge of the cot, finding only cold stone.

Then a voice—hers. "I'm here."

He stilled. Her hand found his wrist, her touch grounding. She didn't ask what he dreamed.

That afternoon, she brought him outside.

Then Cael asked, "Your highness, this place seems smaller than the east wing?"

"But it's ours ... not mine, not yours but ours."

The cliffs opened wide, wind slicing across them like thoughtless blades. But she found the one hollow curve shielded by two great boulders, a place the sun cannot warm.

"We'll make it a garden," she said.

Cael stretched his hand, sensing the coldness of long-abandoned darkness. "A garden? I can tell this place is all shadows."

She pressed a small seed pouch into his hands. The texture surprised him—not grainy, not brittle. Smooth, like oil-polished bone.

Orion crouched and let Cael smell the seed, "Are you familiar with the scent?" he murmured. "Mint and duskfruit. Like a story left unfinished."

Cael tilted his head slightly, inhaling. "I know it. My mother used to keep that scent… in our palace cellars."

Orion chuckled softly. "Then you've met them before, even if you didn't know their name. These are Emberbuds. The flowers that remember."

He sat back on his heels, gaze soft. "They only open in darkness. Not for the sun, not even flame. They like the places where essence lingers—places touched by sorrow, silence or by endings."

Velastra moved closer but said nothing.

"They say," Orion continued, his voice a little lower, "that their scent stirs old emotions. Pulls memory from bone. That's why royals used to grow them beneath mourning chambers—silent flowers for silent ache."

Cael reached toward one carefully, his fingers almost touching. "And I remember, it has a silver shimmer?"

"If your soul's been fractured—if something's still broken inside you," Orion said gently, "the bloom knows. It turns silver in your hand. Reflects what you carry."

He let the words breathe for a moment. Cael suddenly felt betrayed, realizing why the flower turned silver every time her brother picked one.

"Children in the court said these flowers cry when their owner is near betrayal." His smile was faint. "But then again, children say a lot of things that end up being truer than the priests."

Cael said nothing, but his hand hovered a little longer over the seeds—then slowly withdrew.

"They're beautiful," he said at last.

Orion nodded.

---

They dug with their hands, fingers scraping cold soil. Cael worked slowly, his motions unsure, but Velastra never corrected him. She only mirrored his pace, pressing seeds gently into the hollows he made. They did not speak.

The silence was not empty.

That evening, Orion made a fire beside the cot. Juniper smoke swirled, fragrant and crisp. Velastra hummed something old, something from before. Cael sat, legs crossed, tilting his head toward the sound.

"Is that the song from the Temple of Rain?" he asked.

"Almost," she said. "It's the version we sang before the priests added rules."

"I like your version better."

Oriol smiled and sang with Velastra. Cael listens and memorizes their voice, the lyrics, and the feeling.

---

One night, when the wind howled loud enough to rattle the bone-lanterns, Velastra took his hand without waiting. She placed it over her heart.

"So you remember where I am," she said.

Cael said nothing. He didn't need to. He let her fingers linger, eyes closed. A warmth unfurled inside him. Not magic, not healing. Just presence.

---

Sometimes at night, Velastra traced the wall carvings—patterns she'd etched herself, gently, over the months: stars Cael couldn't see, names in Old Flame-tongue, sigils long abandoned. Her hands always paused over one in particular: a spiral of broken circles, open at the center.

"I made this one for you," she whispered once.

"What does it mean?" Cael asked.

"That there's still time."

He didn't ask if she meant for healing—or redemption. 

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