Chapter 87

Chapter 87
Kate’s POV

The space is the same as always: wide, welcoming, with the soft glow of sap on the walls, but something feels different. Maybe it’s because Dan didn’t stay sitting in the corner, folded into that still, watchful posture. Dan actually lay on his side of the bed. His large body sinks into the blankets, and the wall of pillows between us becomes an even sharper divider.

I turn to the side, facing him, even though the pillows keep us hidden from each other. I wonder if his eyes are closed, because I hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. He seems to be asleep. My heart skips a small beat in my chest, like it doesn’t quite believe it.

Even with Ashleen sleeping soundly in the bed nearby and Niv’leen snoring softly on the shelf, the room feels full of him—of Dan. Of his shadows. Of the things that lingered between us in the hall. I try to close my eyes, but I can’t. My mind insists on revisiting every word, every look, every gesture. His sentences hammer inside my head, as if carved into the living wood all around me.

I should be exhausted. My body begs for rest, but my mind refuses. I feel like I’m lying on the edge of a cliff. Not because I’m afraid of falling, but because, for the first time, I want to lean forward and see what happens.

I stretch a little, propped up on my elbow, just enough to peek over the pillow wall. I watch Dan. He doesn’t move. His sleeping expression is strange. Not exactly peaceful, but not tense either. It’s… neutral. As if sleep stripped away his layers of shadows and sarcasm, leaving only a face marked by those dark streaks. To this day, I still wonder if they truly represent tears that once fell and left eternal trails down his cheeks.

I feel something tighten inside me. A knot. I don’t know if it’s affection, anger, or just this absurd urge to reach for him, which I force myself to abandon the very next moment. It’s like part of me screams that whatever we have, whatever it is, cannot stay trapped behind walls of silence and pillows—but also cannot go too far.

I lie back down again and pull the blankets up to my chin. I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to ignore it. I try to trick my body, but it doesn’t work. Because every breath of his seems to echo across the whole bed. Every small movement makes my attention jump. The entire room is a reminder: we’re here, side by side, but separated by a barrier I’ve already accepted as far too natural.

And yet, tonight, everything in me insists something has to change.

I roll again on the mattress. The soft fabric brushes my arm, the sound louder than it should be. I feel ridiculous, like I’m trying to catch the attention of someone who is supposedly asleep.

The pillow wall is there, solid, between us. An improvised fortress, built the first night we shared a room, and now again, so my sister could have all the space she needed. I agreed. I thought it was better this way. And I kept on agreeing, as if it were normal that two people who had once held hands and even hugged would need a wall to stop one body from brushing against the other.

I press my hand against one of the pillows. The fabric is soft, but it’s part of a silly barrier that now feels larger than it should. As if a mere pillow had the power to keep an entire ocean between us.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath. Why does it bother me so much now? I was always fine with it. But tonight… no. Tonight, it’s unbearable to see them there.

Maybe it’s because he said “all this” and included me as part of that all. Maybe it’s because I saw him lying down without that beast-on-guard posture. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I can’t stand holding so much inside anymore.

I bite my lip, hesitate, but my hand is already moving. I push the first pillow to the foot of the bed. The gesture is small, but my heart races as if I’ve just crossed some forbidden line.

I watch. He doesn’t react. Steady breathing, eyes closed. Maybe he really is asleep.

A second pillow. Another layer of the wall falls. This time, I’m sure I held my breath far too long, and when I release it, it comes out as a trembling sigh that feels much too loud in the quiet room.

He doesn’t move.

My hands shake a little. I don’t know if it’s from fear of being caught in this ridiculous act or from the awareness that I’m inching closer to something that changes everything. It’s just a stretch of bed, just a few pillows… but it feels like I’m dragging the walls of the world apart.

The third pillow takes more courage. For an instant, my mind screams: “Stop, Kate.” But my body refuses to listen. It slides aside, joining the others.

Now the space between us is small. So small I can almost feel his warmth reaching across the bed. My heart pounds too hard. Blood rushes in my temples. I try to convince myself I can still stop, still pretend I did nothing. But the truth is—I don’t want to stop.

The wall I always accepted crumbles before me, and there’s no denying that the urge to cross it didn’t start tonight. It’s always been here, buried under layers of fear and painful memories that aren’t even about him, but that I’ve piled on top of him all this time.

I draw in a long breath, forceful, like someone about to plunge into an icy lake. The silence of the Mother Tree presses on me, complicit. I feel as if even she knows I’m about to do something reckless.

I turn, slowly, leaning on my elbow, leaning a bit further toward the space that no longer has a wall. The space between us is now too small. So small it feels dangerous. Again. I lean closer, slowly. Just a little, like someone testing the water’s depth before diving in. The mattress dips under my weight, making his body shift almost imperceptibly. My muscles lock, like I’ve just broken some invisible law. I wait. I watch.

Nothing.

He remains still, eyes closed, breathing steady. The curve of his face, turned toward me, is partly lit by the gentle glow of the roots along the walls. That natural light traces the lines of his jaw, the shadow of his dark lips, the calm arch of his brow.

I swallow hard. It’s a rare sight. Dan never allows himself to be vulnerable, and now, even if I don’t know whether he’s truly asleep, it unravels me more than I want to admit.

I edge a little closer. My hands press into the mattress, hesitant, and I feel my whole body trembling. Getting near him is like approaching a fire that warms me and threatens to consume me. A heat that prickles, a presence that weighs and comforts.

My thoughts turn chaotic. Part of me wants to pull back. To lie on my back and pretend nothing happened, that there’s still a wall of pillows between us. But another part only wants to go on. To finally cross what’s always been between us. This indecision is going to destroy me.

I lean closer. Now I can smell him—that woodsy scent of warmth and shadow. A smell that should drive me away, but instead holds me here.

My lips are far too close. So close that an unconscious gesture could close the distance.

I remember the almost-kiss in the clearing. The way he pulled away, as if the slightest touch were an unforgivable mistake. I remember the pain I felt then, the burning shame. And I wonder if I’m about to repeat that mistake—if, this time, I’ll be even more ashamed for trying while he sleeps, even if, minutes or hours ago, he was the one who tried.

I bite my lip again, wavering. I feel my heartbeat echo in my ears, far too strong, far too fast. It’s as if my whole body screams against the closeness, but also begs me not to retreat.

I look at him. His long lashes cast a delicate shadow over his gray skin. His mouth remains serious, even in sleep.

I want to do something for him. Anything. Even if it’s silly. Even if it’s small.

I lean in a little more. Now, if I exhaled too hard, my breath would brush against his. And I realize maybe that’s exactly what I want: to feel if there’s an answer, if he reacts, even unconsciously.

But I don’t. I hold my breath, almost choking.

I don’t know the exact moment the decision forms inside me. Maybe it isn’t even a decision, but an impulse finally finding a crack to slip through.

I lean further, until the distance becomes unbearable. The mattress dips again, and I feel his body’s warmth spilling across the gap. Not quite a touch, but close. And that closeness alone is enough to send shivers through me.

My heart beats so fast that I find it impossible he can’t hear. And what if he does? What if he opens his eyes now? The thought terrifies me. But at the same time… I want it. I want him to know. I want him, somehow, to understand what I never managed to say in words—because I’m afraid, because I don’t know how, because there’s always something more urgent crushing us.

I bring my face closer to his. I see every detail as if for the first time: the black liner around his eyes, the fine point of his ear, the skin so gray it looks pale. Even his calm breathing becomes a map guiding me.

I close my eyes. And before courage abandons me, I let my lips brush his cheek. It’s quick. So quick it could be mistaken for an accidental touch. But I know it’s not. I know I poured into it everything I’ve held back.

His skin is so warm it makes me want to linger.

I pull away immediately, heart racing out of control, covering my face with my hand as if I could hide from myself what I’ve just done.

Idiot.

That’s all I can think of. I’m a complete idiot.

After everything, after so many chances to say it, to show it, to just let it happen, all I can manage is this? A hidden kiss, stolen on his cheek, when he’ll probably never even notice?

I let out a soft laugh, humorless, almost breathless. A bitter sound.

Even so, I feel something warm swelling inside me. A strange relief. Because even if he never knows, even if this gesture changes nothing, I finally did something. I crossed the wall, even if only for a moment.

I look at him again. Dan hasn’t moved. His face remains serene, his breathing steady. But I can’t shake the feeling that he knows. That, somehow, he sensed it.

I push a few more pillows away, with no courage to rebuild the wall. I lie on my side, still too close to him to pretend indifference.

I shut my eyes, feeling the frantic beats of my heart slowly settle. I still feel like an idiot. I still feel like a coward. But for the first time in a long while, I also feel… alive.

…

I wake to the gentle light filtered through the Mother Tree’s leaves. I don’t know exactly how long I slept. My body feels heavy, as if I’d spent the whole night swimming against a current.

When I open my eyes, I see that Dan has already gone. The wall of pillows is mostly dismantled—my fault—but he’s no longer on his side. Maybe he left early, maybe he never really slept.

My hand instinctively rises to my own cheek, as if by touching it I could relive what I did last night. A secret warmth fills me. And with it, the shame. Still, the weight of cowardice feels lighter than before.

I rise slowly and find Niv’leen sitting on a root curved like a chair, watching Ashleen play with curls from a new hairstyle he must have made for her.

“My little pest woke up late,” he says without looking at me.

I roll my eyes. “And you woke up too early.”

He smiles but doesn’t push.

I sit near them. I watch Ashleen laughing at something silly, winding a colored ribbon through her hair. She looks so normal, so unaware of everything surrounding her, that I almost forget what still threatens her. And it’s exactly that which gives me the courage I lacked.

“I’ve made a decision,” I say, more to myself than to them.

Niv’leen raises his brows, curious. “Dangerous decision or foolish decision?”

“Maybe both,” I answer. “But it’s mine.”

He tilts his head, gauging my tone, and doesn’t press. Ashleen hums softly to some song I don’t know where she learned, oblivious to the weight of what I just said.

The minutes crawl by. I don’t say anything to Dan when he returns, cloaked in a silence that unsettles me and makes me wonder if he has any idea of what I did last night.

I don’t say anything to Ashleen either. I keep the words like a secret that needs to ripen before it’s revealed. And then, when the Queen arrives for Ashleen’s lesson, her presence fills the room.

I draw a deep breath. It has to be now.

“Your Majesty,” I begin, my voice firm even though my hands tremble. “I’ve thought about what was asked of me.”

She fixes me with her gaze, eyes like blades of light.

“And?”

“I will surrender the accumulation of my magic.”

The silence that follows is so dense it almost hurts my ears. Even Ashleen stops playing and lifts her face, confused.

Niv’leen is the first to react.

“My little pest… are you sure?” This time, he doesn’t try to make it a game.

“I am.” My reply doesn’t falter. “I don’t want anyone deciding for me. I’m done wasting time being afraid. If this is the way to protect you, to protect Tir na nÓg, then I’ll do it.”

The Queen doesn’t move for a long moment. But I notice something different in her expression: not pride, not joy, but a silent respect. As if my choice had echoed deeper than she expected.

Dan says nothing. He only looks at me, and in that look lies a weight I can’t decipher—some mix of pain, of worry, of something I don’t dare try to name.

But I don’t go back.