That night, I dread the moment my dreams come.


    The Eidolan Spire breathes around me, its monolithic walls humming with a resonance I can feel in my bones. The air here is thick—older than dust, steeped in magic and history. High above, its iron gears groan, shifting unseen mechanisms, the grinding sound reverberating through the floor. It is a place where time folds in on itself, where whispers of past and future intertwine until one is indistinguishable from the other. The sky beyond the arched windows is slick with clouded moonlight, the stars struggling against the pull of the Spire''s unseen gravity.


    Beneath my feet, the floor pulses faintly with silver veins of magic, shifting in rhythm with the erratic drumbeat of my heart. I shudder and press a trembling hand to my temple, as if I can will away the remnants of my mortal life—the fears, the doubts, the ache of a past I am still shackled to. But the weight does not lift. It only presses harder.


    I turn, and there he is, a silhouette framed in the fractured moonlight bleeding through stained glass. The colors paint him in jagged hues: cobalt across his shoulders, crimson pooling at his boots, as though the Spire itself is trying to dissect him. His dark eyes, twin voids edged with flecks of gold, catch the torchlight as he tilts his head. He lifts a hand in a half-wave, the gesture languid, but there’s nothing casual in the way his fingers linger near the dagger at his hip, or the taut line of his shoulders beneath his leather coat. A predator’s stillness.


    I nod in acknowledgment but make no move toward him, my throat tight, and fix my gaze on the memory trial’s archway. Its keystone glows with runes that writhe like serpents, their light a sickly green that makes my stomach churn. Focus. This is the only way to sever the tether. Maybe I could sever it before morning falls, before my father forces me to go before the judges. But my curious eyes flick back to Aziel. To the way his chest rises just slightly too fast, the almost imperceptible twitch in his jaw as he studies me. He’s been doing that more lately: watching, dissecting, as if I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve before the pieces are lost. But the trials are why I am here. The thought hardens in my chest like a stone. I force my gaze toward the looming archway of the memory trial door. Anything but the way he is looking at me. Anything but the things he might know. I silently gesture toward the memory door, my voice carefully even. The words taste like ash. Did he see? The question gnaws at the edges of my mind, but I shove it down. Aziel''s expression doesn''t change, but his gaze is unrelenting, cutting through me like a knife through parchment.


    "Tia." Just my name, A silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of unspoken truths. The trials wait beyond the chamber doors, the choices looming like sentinels. I know what I must do, the ground beneath me feels unsteady. Aziel’s voice breaks the stillness, quieter now, but no less certain. “If you go into the Memory trial like this, you will shatter.”


    The air shifts, growing heavier. My pulse flares against the rune carved into my palm. "You don''t know anything," I snap. It''s a lie, and we both know it. "I don''t need this. Leave me alone."


    "I know what he did to you. What he''s made you believe." The words coil around my ribs like a noose. His footsteps are soundless as he moves closer. There is no hesitation, no theatrics—just the steady certainty of someone who has already seen the outcome of this moment.


    "You don''t know anything about me." I spat.


    “I know you hold your breath when you lie.” His voice is a midnight confession, barely louder than the candle’s whisper. The world narrows, collapsing down to the space between us, to the way his eyes trace over me with something too dangerous to name. “That you hum old lullabies under your breath when you think no one’s listening. That you still apologize to chairs when you bump into them.” A question lingers there, unspoken, teetering on the edge of his lips. Lips that have no business being that sharp, that soft. Lips that could cut glass or promise paradise. I think he already knows the answer. I think that terrifies him as much as it does me.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    “I know you''d bleed yourself dry to keep others whole.” His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, a touch so fleeting it should mean nothing.


    He pauses, and in that silence, I hear the unspoken “let me bleed for you instead.”  The air between us thickens, sweet and cloying as summer wine.  I should pull away. Should rebuild the walls he’s so effortlessly dismantling. But the room tilts, and I am anchorless, adrift in the storm of his nearness. How? I want to scream.


    "I know that your favorite time of the day is when it''s sunset, and the sky is purple and orange."  The flickering light catches on his lashes as he studies me.


    A pause. Then, softer, deadlier.


    "And I know you''re still waiting for him to love you." The words crack something inside me, splintering through the walls I have carefully built. My legs falter, the strength in them dissolving like sand under a wave. But before I can fall, Aziel is there, swift and deliberate, his grip sure as he catches me. His arm bands across my chest, keeping me upright before my knees can hit the stone. A sob claws its way up my throat, raw and jagged, but I choke it back. My teeth sink into my lip, copper flooding my mouth, but I refuse to break in front of him again.


    "Breathe," he orders, his voice a low murmur against the hollow silence of the grand hall.I want to fight him. I want to claw at him for daring to see the rot inside me. But above us, the Spire groans, an eerie reminder that time is a luxury we do not have.


    “Your father will weaponize that heart of yours,” Aziel murmured, his breath a hot ember against my ear. “He’ll make you choose between love and survival. That’s what tyrants do. Celine. Atlas. Yourself? He''ll make you choose."


    I wrench myself free, staggering back a step, breath still coming too fast. "And you won''t?" The accusation is bitter, sharpened by my own fury. "How do you know anything about me? It''s starting to become very clear to me that something is not only wrong with him, but you too."


    Aziel stills. For the first time something flickers in his gaze, something unreadable, something dangerous.


    "It''s different," His voice so quiet I almost don''t hear it. His throat moves as he swallows.


    “When you wake,” he said, voice fraying, “I dream your life. Every night. Every breath.”


    The admission hung between us, fragile as a moth’s wing. For a heartbeat, I wanted to claw it from the air, crush it before it could root inside me. I feel exposed, as if he has stripped me down to something too raw to conceal. My pulse stammers, caught between disbelief and something far more dangerous. A lifetime of solitude fractures in an instant. The weight of my memories, my fears, my pain. How much of it has he seen? How much of me does he already know?


    I do not know whether to recoil or lean in, whether to run or demand answers. Because if he speaks the truth, then I am not just seen, I am known.


    He stepped back, the distance a blade. Aziel’s gaze flicks to the redness of my cheeks. I''m not sure if they were red from embarrassment or from my fathers hand. His throat bobs as if the sight pains him. “He is going to use your life against you,” he murmurs. “Celine. Atlas. He’ll make you choose. That’s what he does—he weaponizes the parts of you that still care. I''ve seen it, Tia. Your father will do whatever it takes to remain in power. Permanently.”


    I recoil, my boot scraping against the floor. The sound is too loud, “And you won’t?” The words are venom, but they crumble at the edges.


    He goes unnaturally still. For a moment, I see it. The fracture in his armor. A flicker of raw, unguarded want in his eyes, quickly smothered. His voice, when it comes, is rougher than I expected.


    “I never want you to feel like I have made any choices for you. I just don''t want you to wake up one day and realize you never got to choose.”


    The truth of it is a live wire in my chest. Aziel’s presence suddenly feels unbearable—the scent of bergamot and spices, the quiet certainty of him. I watch his hand rise, as if to brush my hair from my face, but he aborts the motion, fingers curling into a fist. The withdrawal is its own confession. His gaze drops, just for a second, as if admitting this costs him something. Then he takes a step back, widening the space between us. Aziel has always known too much. Seen too much. And yet, he never tries to control me. He only ever holds up a mirror, forcing me to face my own reflection.


    And that terrifies me more than anything else ever could.