Chapter 32 “The Quiet Between Heart Beats”
Time has lost its shape.
The moon has waxed and waned over the Silverfang realm so many times that I’ve stopped counting. Each night feels the same — the hush of the palace, the low hum of magic in the walls, and the soft, steady sound of her breathing.
That sound is the only thing keeping me alive.
Elera lies on the bed, pale as moonlight, her golden hair spilling like sunlight across the pillow. The mark on her chest glows faintly, pulsing every few seconds — a heartbeat that isn’t entirely her own. It mirrors mine, tethered by the bond she forged when she saved me.
Sometimes, I press my hand over it, just to remind myself she’s still there.
The healers come and go. The queen checks on her every dawn. The Seer murmurs prayers in the old tongue. But no one can wake her. No magic, no potion, no plea.
They say she’s in a deep sleep — that her spirit is resting, gathering strength from what remains of the Heartstone’s light.
But I know better.
She’s fighting. Somewhere beyond the veil, she’s fighting her way back to me.
I can feel it.
So I stay. Always.
Days bleed into nights. I forget meals. I forget sleep. The guards try to coax me away, but the thought of leaving her even for a moment feels wrong — like abandoning a flame in the wind.
Sometimes, Liam visits. He stands by the doorway, silent, the guilt heavy in his eyes. We don’t speak much. There are no words for what hangs between us — love, loss, and the weight of things neither of us can change.
Once, he says quietly, “She wouldn’t want you to fade away waiting.”
I look at her hand in mine. “Then she shouldn’t have taught me what it means to need someone.”
He doesn’t argue after that.
When night falls, I talk to her. Not because I think she can hear me — though sometimes I hope she can — but because silence hurts more than anything else.
I tell her about the realm, how the rivers have begun to flow again, how the skies no longer bleed red with the Shadowmother’s curse. I tell her her magic changed something here — the land itself breathes easier.
I tell her her name is spoken in every hall now, half in awe, half in prayer.
And then I tell her the truth.
That I’m terrified she’ll never wake up.
That every time her mark dims, I feel like the world tilts off its axis.
That I would trade every ounce of power I have left if it meant hearing her say my name again.
The queen says I shouldn’t linger in grief, that even love needs rest. But she doesn’t understand — I’m not grieving. I’m waiting.
There’s a difference.
Grief feels final. Waiting still believes.
And I do. Gods help me, I do.
Sometimes at dawn, I dream with my eyes open. The light hits her face just right, and for a heartbeat, I swear I see her lips move — like she’s whispering something only my soul can hear. Then it’s gone, leaving the air too still, too sharp.
The Seer told me once that bonds like ours leave traces — threads of energy between hearts. “Speak to her through it,” she said. “She may not answer, but she’ll feel you.”
So I do.
Every night, I close my eyes and reach for her in the quiet between heartbeats.
Elera.
The name is a prayer, a plea, a wound.
Sometimes I feel warmth answer me — faint, fleeting — like fingers brushing mine through water. Other nights, there’s nothing. Just the echo of my own longing.
Still, I keep talking.
“You once told me the moonlight reminded you of home,” I whisper. “Do you remember? You said it looked softer from the mortal realm, as if it carried secrets instead of power.”
I glance toward the window where the moon spills silver across her blanket. “It’s the same here now. Maybe you changed that too.”
A soft breeze drifts through the curtains. The mark on her chest flickers once. My breath catches.
“Elera?”
But she doesn’t move.
The flicker fades.
I exhale slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You’re cruel, you know that?” I murmur. “Even asleep, you find a way to break me.”
My voice cracks, but I don’t look away. I can’t.
Because what if she wakes, and I’m not the first thing she sees?
Because what if she doesn’t wake at all?
I lean forward and press my lips against her knuckles, the way I used to when words felt too small. Her skin is cool, but there’s life beneath it — quiet, hidden, waiting.
“You brought me back from the dark,” I whisper. “Now let me return the favor.”
The wind stirs again, carrying the scent of rain and earth. Somewhere distant, thunder rumbles — soft, patient. The world feels like it’s holding its breath.
So do I.
Every day. Every night.
Waiting for the moment the air shifts. Waiting for her eyes to open.
I’ve forgotten what her voice sounds like when she’s angry. How she says my name like it’s both a curse and a promise. How her laughter makes everything else small.
I remember, but remembering hurts.
So I talk. I stay. I hope.
Because if there’s one thing she taught me, it’s that love isn’t the fire. It’s the thing that survives after everything else burns.
And if that’s true — if love survives — then she will too.
She has to.
I lean back, my hand still over hers, my heartbeat syncing with the faint pulse beneath her skin.
“Come back,” I whisper again. “Just once more.”
The mark between us flickers — once, twice — and this time, it doesn’t fade immediately.
It steadies.
The glow spreads from her chest to her throat, her lips parting slightly as a slow breath escapes.
And in that fragile, trembling moment, hope blooms so sharply it almost hurts.
I blink once — afraid to move, afraid to believe — and then her fingers twitch against mine.
Just a twitch. Barely there.
But it’s enough to make the world start again.