This is the night Elara would remember long after the fire—when she first knew the shape of forever.

I am going to spend the rest of my life with you.

The sky shimmered above the wildlands, awash in stardust and quiet magic. I was high on oldroot smoke, light and laughing beneath the echo of the moon. There was no fear in me then—only the knowing.

The song on the skyrails was deafening. We stood on opposite thresholds, not yet crossing, but already entwined. The hum between us pulsed like a tether. Something ancient. Something summoned.

I would change the shape of my whole world for you. You have awoken me.

Last night, in the glow of the tavern’s lanterns, we traded foolish riddles and half-sweet jokes from old candy parchment. You spoke one so terrible I nearly cried laughing, and then I looked up—and you were already watching me.

That look. The one that says, I know you.

And I knew you.

Who looks away first? It’s usually me. My bones remember what it is to be unseen, to be told I am not worth knowing.

But you held my gaze. You didn’t flinch. You stayed. And something in me whispered: this is what it means to be found.

I don’t burn with want when I’m near you. I burn with presence. With the ache of stillness made holy. I see us lying side by side atop my bedrolls in the high cliffs, fully clothed, hands entwined, eyes wide open beneath the constellations, speaking until the stars dim and dawn presses against the veil.

You’d rise at first light. Press your lips to my brow. Go off to craft your wares or string your next melody. And I would wake with the echo of your hand still wrapped in mine.

Later, I’d whisper a message through the windlines: “Thank you for staying. For talking. For being.”

I would marry you in the grove without audience. I would carve the runes of our names into the bark of the old trees and ask nothing else of the world.

And I wonder—how would you feel about Leor? Could you carry space for him too? Would you ever wish for children of our own, if the stars sang in our favor?

Leor is the thread of my soul. I know that if you and I are meant to unfold, it will not be something forced. It will be natural. Gentle. Beautiful.

Our closeness is settled. Come what may.

I do not wish ruin upon the dragon— only peace for the one she once held.

But I do not believe your freedom lies in her wings. Not truly.

It lies in the stillness beneath your ribs. In the root of you— uncoiled and unshamed. It lies in the part of you that dares to sing again, without fear of who might hear.

I do not write this to draw you back to me, only to remember the night the song began.

When you are ready… I will be waiting at the edge of the leyline, where the wind carries old magic and the path hums with memory. I will have my hand outstretched, and I will still remember your name.

But until then— I am wandering. Heartbroken. Dismayed. Without song.

I know we are still bound, despite your choice to let the dragon snatch you away.

But gods—it is lonely. Isolating. Crippling, even.

And still… I wait.

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