Chapter 44: Aaron

He walked in without a word. Or maybe he had spoken, but Blanche hadn't heard a thing. What an idiot... All the clues had been right there under her nose, and she hadn't put them together. When it's too much, it's too much: she burst into tears, unable to tell whether it was sorrow or joy. Phénix, alerted by her distress, began purring louder in an attempt to calm her.

Little mouse, remember: you mustn't say anything. This isn't Kiyan, it's Aaron. He doesn't know who you are—not really. Don't forget that. And above all, he mustn't understand your reaction. Pull yourself together, for Lilith's sake!

Aaron leapt toward her, worried, and wrapped her in his arms. Helpless, she clung to him like a lifeline. The contact of his firm, reassuring chest stirred a wave of memories within her, like fragments of dreams whose meaning she could suddenly grasp perfectly.

"And here I thought I'd have to wait weeks before you'd let me hold you in my arms again," he murmured in that warm, deep voice of his.

A laugh escaped her, gradually smothering her tears. Her fingers were still trembling, clutching the fabric of his dark tank top, slightly worn with use, hinting at the warmth of his skin.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, still clinging to him. "I don't know what came over me."

"Let me guess: it's all starting to get a bit much."

"Starting?! You've got to be kidding!" she shot back.

Phénix moved away from the pair and curled up, watching them. She was recovering surprisingly quickly.

"Why are you using "vous" with me?" Aaron asked. "You never did before."

"Really?" Blanche said, surprised.

"Yeah, so... please don't."

"It's going to take me a little time to get used to all this," she said, stepping away.

She finally took the time to really look at him. Kiyan—or Aaron—wore military fatigues in sand and olive tones, fitted without being stiff, marked by the creases of action. The rolled-up sleeves of his top revealed powerful forearms, traced with prominent veins and fine scars telling a thousand battles.

Beneath his open jacket, a dark tank top clung lightly to his torso, outlining a lean, functional musculature, forged by training and war. A ring—identical to the one he had on Epsilon, silver and gold—hung from his neck on a silver chain, gently tapping against his sternum with each movement.

His boots, still covered in dust, betrayed a recent return from the field. He had that presence... raw and magnetic, the kind of man who keeps moving forward no matter what, even when the world trembles.

"No problem. And I believe Argy already explained everything to you."

"The broad strokes..." Blanche muttered, trying not to stare at him again.

But it was stronger than her. Every detail about him stirred something visceral, a familiarity both painful and sweet.

"Very well. In that case, follow me."

He took her hand, and the young woman, still dazed, followed him to his room. The moment she crossed the threshold, her breath caught.

The walls were covered in photographs. She let go of him, drawn in despite herself. Half of the pictures were of her. She hadn't known Kiyan—or Aaron—had such talent with a camera.

But that wasn't all.

The room itself seemed straight out of an ancient tale. Rich rugs with oriental patterns covered the floor, muffling every step. Heavy drapes in deep hues—crimson, gold, and night—framed an immense, almost royal bed, topped with a finely carved canopy.

Hanging lanterns cast a warm, dim light, throwing dancing shadows across the walls, as if the room itself were breathing. The air carried a faint scent of amber and burnt wood. Embroidered cushions were scattered everywhere, inviting rest, confidences, intimacy.

It was a refuge. Their refuge.

Black-and-white portraits, scenes with Argy, with Phénix in human form, a shot of her on the back of a gigantic wolf—Fenrir?—another on a black panther. Two drakions in the sky: one bright white, one dark gray. And an entire wall of photos of the two of them: her sleeping against him, her kissing him...

Wait—what?

Her heart clenched violently. Every image was tangible proof of a love she didn't remember living... but that her soul recognized without hesitation.

She stepped closer to the adjacent wall. Beneath a flowered arch, in a simple white dress and a crown of flowers, she smiled while holding Kiyan's hand, elegant in a black suit. Close together. Married.

A strange warmth filled her chest, mixed with a dull, almost unbearable ache. She wished she could remember that moment. She wished she could fully feel the joy she saw on her own face.

He wasn't the one who had taken those photos—someone else had.

"Who...?"

"Our son," Aaron replied.

So Argy liked photography...

"We're really married..." she murmured, lost and delighted all at once.

Her voice trembled, heavy with conflicting emotions. One part of her was elated; another felt betrayed by the silence imposed on her.

And he had never said a word about it. Yet when she woke up, his memory had been intact—he knew. His words came back to her: "No, not now, you're only seventeen!" "You'll be here soon." "You'll find out soon enough."

He knew.

He knew—and he had said nothing.

Anger surged, suddenly clear and cutting. Her emotions overflowed all at once. Someone was going to have a very bad time when she woke up tomorrow. Things were going to get heated at home. Her fists clenched; Aaron grew concerned.

"Is everything alright?"

She turned back to him, smiling. But the smile was complex, threaded with countless shades: love, frustration, tenderness—and a new determination.

A colossal weight had just fallen from her shoulders. She had married the man she dreamed of in her wildest fantasies, after all.

"Couldn't be better," she replied before leaving the room and slamming the door behind her.

Aaron didn't follow, understanding that she needed space. Blanche spent the rest of the afternoon training and improving her skills. The boss had ordered that she be left alone: the barracks had emptied. Half had gone to help the villagers build a barricade.

In French.