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He collapsed against me then, his breaths ragged and his forehead buried in the crook of my neck. His body was heavy, spent, but still moving slower and slower until he stilled. We stayed that way, tangled and trembling.

And I, the fool I was, whispered the one word I shouldn’t have, the one word that sealed our fate: “Stay.”

His body stilled. He looked at me then, and the expression in his eyes… It was as if he was already mourning what we had, what we couldn’t keep. “I want to,” he had whispered back, his voice thick with a sorrow that mirrored my own.

Liar. Beautiful, damned liar.

Back in the bathtub, in the cooling water of my solitary bath, my fingers dipped inside, curling around a phantom echo of his presence. I remembered his taste: salt, smoke, and whiskey. He tasted of Heaven from which I had been exiled from, of a light I could no longer bear.

“Come for me,” I repeated, whispering his words against my forearm. My body trembled in response to my touch, a lonely mimicry. I could almost pretend it was him again, his—

All that climax gave me was a broken, silent sob. My chest heaved, my skin flushed with a heat that brought no comfort. No touch could replace that memory. No single fire could match the inferno he had ignited within me.

When I opened my eyes, the bathroom was dim again. Quiet. Hollow. An empty stage after a tragedy had played out.

I let my head fall back against the porcelain and slowly sank beneath the water’s surface. Just long enough to silence the relentless ache in my chest.

When I surfaced, the air felt cooler and heavier. I washed with slow, methodical movements, a ritual of cleansing. The soap traced the same paths his hands had once claimed, and I tried, with a desperation that was almost a prayer, not to linger on them.

After putting on my nightdress, I entered my bedroom. The fire in the massive stone hearth, which was carefully stoked, cast restless shadows on the dark wood paneling. The lamps had been dimmed to a soft glow, creating pools of warm light. And a crystal glass of soulfire, its amber depths glowing with an inner heat, awaited me on my nightstand.

I padded barefoot across the cool floor, the chill a familiar reminder of every solitary step, and lifted the glass in one steady hand. I let the warming, fiery liquid bite down my throat with an almost welcoming intensity.

The bed, a vast expanse of dark linens and shadows, beckoned. I climbed in slowly, stretching beneath the blankets’ lush, comforting weight. One arm rested comfortably behind my head, the other lay across my stomach. I waited for the silence to consume me, to grant me a few hours of blessed nothingness.

Yet the silence in this house, in my life, was never absolute.

As the hearth’s last embers faded, the surrounding shadows—my constant unwelcomed companions—moved with a slow fluidity at the very edges of my consciousness. They approached not with words but with an oppressive, insidious pressure, a knowing that seemed to insinuate itself into every fiber of my being.

You never let yourself rest, Little Flame, they murmured, their voices soft and indistinct. You feed your body, but what about your soul? It starves.

I exhaled through my nose, my eyes fixed on the bed’s dim canopy above. “Not tonight,” I whispered, a quiet, weary defiance. “Tonight, I just want to be.”

You ache for him, they continued, their voices persistent. Still. After all this time. After all the betrayals.

“That’s just creepy, you know?” I muttered, my voice draped in defiance and a regret I could not shake. “Peeking in when I am naked and spent. Have you no shame at all?”

Be quiet, came the curt, almost impatient command from the enveloping darkness. A collective sigh. Then why do you still feel him? Why does his ghost still cling to your skin?

I rolled onto my side, drawing the heavy blanket up to my chin. “Because he was a good lay,” I muttered, the dismissive admission hanging heavy.

The shadows hummed low, the sound almost a soft collective chuckle. That is what you make yourself believe, Little Flame. Their myriad voices were a blend of mocking pity and sorrowful understanding. A convenient lie to warm a cold bed.

I said nothing more. Instead, I closed my eyes and surrendered to the encroaching night, letting them think they had won.

One last whisper curled around me as I drifted toward the uneasy solace of sleep. You push us away. But we are the only ones who ever truly stay.

7. Remiel

I should not have watched. But pride was a luxury I had forfeited long ago.

Hidden in the crumbling ramparts overlooking Cassia’s rooms, I was a stone in the shadows, cloaked in silence. Through the gap in her window, the curtains shifted, offering glimpses of a scene not meant for my eyes.

Inside, the steam from her bath rose like mist. Her skin, under the candlelight, had the pale gleam of old marble. The line of her back, the curve of her hip… The details I had no right to observe yet could not force myself to ignore.

She then closed her eyes, and her arm slipped under the water. I should have turned away. My duty, or what little remained of it, demanded that I turn away. But I remained frozen in place. Her actions were not just about physical release; they were a ritual of remembrance, a solitary dance with ghosts.

And I hoped I was the ghost with which she was dancing with.