Khaivor
Iwake to warmth before I wake to thought.
For a long moment I don’t move. She sleeps beside me, her breath slow and even against my shoulder, her hair loose across the pillow like dark silk spilled by accident.
Morning light slips through the shutters in thin gold ribbons, painting the room in soft amber bands that make everything feel hushed and impossibly gentle.
My instincts arrive late.
Normally I wake alert, measuring distance and danger before my eyes fully open. Those habits try to rise now, but they feel slow and misplaced, as though they no longer belong in this room.
Because there is nothing here that feels like danger.
There is only Roseth.
Her hand rests lightly against my chest, curled as if she fell asleep mid-thought and never finished the gesture. I stare at it for a long moment, struck by the quiet trust of it. No one has ever slept beside me like this. No one has ever slept beside me without fear.
The realization settles slowly and then all at once.
I feel safe.
The thought is so unfamiliar that it almost feels like a mistake.
She shifts in her sleep and presses closer, her forehead brushing my collarbone. The small movement sends a warmth through me so sudden and bright that it makes my chest ache. I close my eyes briefly, letting the sensation exist without analysis, without caution.
When she finally wakes, it happens gradually. Her lashes flutter. Her fingers tighten slightly against my shirt. She inhales sharply as awareness returns, and then her gaze lifts to meet mine.
For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks.
Her lips curve first.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
The simple words settle into me with startling weight. Good morning. As though mornings like this are normal. As though waking beside me is not something extraordinary or reckless or foolish.
“Good morning,” I reply, and the softness in my voice surprises me.
She studies me for a moment, her expression warm and curious, as though she is still deciding whether this moment is real. Then she laughs quietly and hides her face against my shoulder.
“I forgot you were real,” she says.
The confession is so honest that it steals the breath from my lungs.
“I have that effect,” I answer lightly, though my chest feels dangerously full.
She pulls back just enough to look at me again, her eyes bright in the morning light. “You are smiling,” she says, sounding delighted by the discovery.
I had not noticed.
I cannot remember the last time I woke up smiling.
The realization lingers long after she slips from the bed and begins moving about the small room, humming quietly to herself as she braids her hair.
I watch her without meaning to, memorizing the easy rhythm of her movements, the way she pauses to stretch, the way she mutters to herself while searching for her boots.
This is what peace looks like, I think. It is small and domestic and unremarkable. It smells like ash and lavender. It hums off-key while tying its hair.
The idea terrifies me because I want it.
By the time we step into the street, Bellmere is already alive with festival preparations. Bells ring in uneven bursts across the town, laughter spills from open doors, and the air hums with anticipation.
Roseth walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush occasionally, and every accidental touch sends a quiet spark through me that I pretend not to notice.
We reach the forge just as the bell gives its first testing chime of the day.
The sound rolls through the square like sunlight made audible, warm and clear and impossibly resonant. Even after days of hearing it, the tone still makes my breath catch. It carries farther than it should. It lingers longer than any ordinary bell has the right to linger.
Roseth pauses at the doorway, listening with a proud, almost shy smile.
“It sounds happy,” she says.
I want to tell her that it sounds powerful. That it sounds dangerous. That it feels like the kind of magic that kingdoms would burn cities to possess.
Instead, I nod. “It does.”
A voice interrupts us from the far side of the square. “Khaivor.”
My entire body goes still before my mind catches up. I know that voice.
I turn slowly and see her standing near the well, hood pushed back, silver hair gleaming in the morning sun like frost. Ysoria looks exactly as she always does: poised, composed, and impossibly out of place in the cheerful chaos of Bellmere.
Roseth glances between us, immediately sensing the shift in the air. “Friend of yours?”
The word friend feels dangerously inaccurate.
“Yes,” I say carefully. “Something like that.”
Ysoria approaches with measured steps, her gaze flicking briefly toward Roseth before returning to me. There is no surprise in her expression, only quiet calculation.
“So it is true,” she says softly. “That you stayed.”
Roseth clears her throat gently. “I can give you two a moment.”
Her instinct to step away twists something in my chest.
“You do not have to leave,” I say quickly.
Ysoria studies that reaction with sharp interest. Roseth hesitates, then offers Ysoria a polite nod before slipping into the forge.
Only when the door closes does Ysoria speak again.
“Join me on a walk,” I insist as we go through the back door.
We are further away before she speaks.
“You are in danger,” she says.
“I assumed as much when you appeared.” I grunt
Her lips twitch faintly. “Charming as always. Tell me, does she know what you are?”
I do not answer.
She sighs softly. “Khaivor, listen to me. Word has begun to move in Kantor. There are whispers of a bell whose resonance carries beyond its maker. If the nobility hears of this place, they will not come as visitors.”
My stomach tightens.
“She does not even realize what she has made,” Ysoria continues. “That bell could amplify magical frequencies across distances we once believed impossible. It could influence entire regions. Entire armies.”
I glance toward the forge door.
“She made it to celebrate a festival,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” Ysoria replies. “And that innocence will not protect her.”
The words settle like frost in my lungs.
“We need to leave,” she says gently. “Before someone else arrives.”
I open my mouth to argue, to insist that I am not leaving again, that I am not abandoning this fragile, beautiful life I have somehow stumbled into.
Then the sensation hits me.
A prickle along the back of my neck. A subtle shift in the air, like the faint echo of breath where none should be. Years of training snap awake in an instant.
Someone is watching.
My gaze lifts, scanning rooftops, windows, alleyways. For a heartbeat I see nothing.
Then movement flashes at the brink of the clearing, going into the woods.
A figure disappears around the corner of a narrow street, cloak snapping behind them.
“Did you see that?” I ask sharply.
Ysoria turns, but the street is already empty.
My pulse quickens. Instinct screams at me to pursue but instead I turn back toward the forge.
“I need to check on Roseth.”
I do not wait for Ysoria’s response. I move quickly across the square, my mind racing with possibilities I refuse to name.
Inside, the forge glows warm and bright. Roseth stands at the workbench, humming again.
Relief floods me so powerfully that it leaves me dizzy.
She looks up and smiles. “You were gone longer than I expected.”
“I ran into someone from my past,” I say.
Her expression softens immediately with concern. “Is everything alright?”
I want to say yes.
I want to protect this moment just a little longer. Instead I step closer and brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “It will be.”
Her smile returns, bright and trusting.
The bell chimes softly overhead and then the sound stops abruptly. The sudden silence crashes over me like cold water. The absence of resonance feels wrong. It defies explanation, like a heartbeat vanishing mid-beat.
Roseth frowns, looking toward the rafters. “That’s strange. The wind hasn’t—”
I am already moving.
The bell’s presence has been a constant hum at the edge of my senses since the day it was forged. Now there is nothing.
Only silence.
Something has gone terribly wrong.