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Sharlayan’s air was different in the late afternoon—softer, touched by salt and silence. Lunabelle walked slowly along the familiar cobbled paths of the city’s plaza, her steps unhurried, the hem of her dress brushing against the stone like a whisper. She rarely dressed this way—lightly, unarmored—but something about the warmth of the day and the lull of peace had coaxed her into it. She suddenly spotted a familiar figure across the plaza.
G’raha stood near a weathered bookstall, half-obscured by the shade of an awning. He was thumbing carefully through a dense volume, brows furrowed in quiet interest. The sunlight caught in his hair and when he looked up, his expression shifted from study to delight.
“Ah—Lunabelle!” His voice brightened the space between them. He gently closed the book he'd been reading, cradling it with both hands as if it were something fragile. “Fancy meeting you here. I was just browsing a few tomes on Allagan history—some rare editions, actually. And you…?” He trailed off, eyes traveling hesitantly from her face to her dress, his tail flicking once, betraying the quiet stutter of his composure. “You look… different.”
She lifted a book from the stall without reading the title, thumbing through its pages in a distracted sort of way. “Do I? Perhaps it's because for once I'm not out on a mission. Just out for a walk.”
G’raha blinked, still processing the image before him. There was something almost unfamiliar in how the light played against the bright folds of her Thavnairian dress—how unburdened she looked, how utterly herself. Without the weight of armor and expectation, she seemed smaller, yes—but also softer. Less a symbol. More a person.
“Different,” he repeated, fumbling slightly. “But in a good way! I mean—very good. You look…” he paused, then chuckled nervously, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ll stop talking now before I dig myself a deeper hole.”
She laughed—quiet, melodic—and his ears twitched in response. That sound. It always caught him off guard.
“I bought this dress months ago,” she said, turning a page in the book she held, though her eyes weren’t reading. “In Thavnair. But today is the first chance I've gotten to actually wear it.”
He smiled, his eyes softening. “It suits you.”
He meant it sincerely, though when her gaze met his, he looked quickly away, feigning interest in the spines of books he’d already read. His tail flicked again, betraying him.
Then, as if summoned by the emptiness of silence, he cleared his throat. “If you’re not in a rush… would you care to join me? There’s a small café nearby—quiet, by the sea. They serve excellent pastries and exotic flavors of coffee.”
Lunabelle glanced at him, amused. “That sounds lovely.”
He lit up—visibly. As if her acceptance had let some breath he'd been holding escape his chest. “Wonderful,” he said, and offered his arm with a slightly formal flourish, the ghost of his dramatic and mischievous flair peeking through. “Shall we?”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow without hesitation, and together they walked through the winding streets of Sharlayan. His stride lightened with each step, buoyed by her presence and the illusion—however brief—that all was right with the world.
The café was nestled between the curve of a staircase and a row of tall pines, half-forgotten by the more modern students who had come after them. Its windows opened wide to the sea, where trade ships bobbed quietly in the harbor, their sails like billowing clouds in the breeze.
“Ah,” Lunabelle murmured as they stepped inside. “An old haunt from your Studium days, I presume?”
G’raha chuckled as he pulled out her chair. “Caught me. I spent many late nights here, buried in theory and ink stains. The owner, Master Gifford, was once a professor at the Studium. He practically raised me on caffeine and philosophy.”
As if summoned by memory, a kind-eyed Hyur approached their table, carrying a pot of coffee and two menus. His smile was broad and genuine.
“G’raha!” the old man exclaimed. “It’s been too long. And who’s this you've brought with ye today?”
Lunabelle inclined her head with quiet grace. “Lunabelle. A pleasure.”
The man paused, recognition dawning in the narrowing of his eyes. “Lunabelle… not the Lunabelle?” He looked to G’raha, scandalized. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me, boy! The Warrior of Light herself, sippin’ coffee in my humble shop?”
G’raha looked mortified, quickly taking the pot and pouring coffee into Lunabelle's cup as if he could drown the moment in caffeine. “Please, Master Gifford,” he muttered. “She's here for pleasure. Not business.”
But Lunabelle only smiled, serene and calm as always. “That's correct,” she said gently, “Today I am not the Warrior of Light. I am only Lunabelle.”
Master Gifford offered a small, apologetic bow, the lines of age softening in his expression.
“Of course, of course,” he said, his voice low and kind. “I’ll leave you two to your evening. If you need anything, just call.”
With that, he retreated to the counter, vanishing into the quiet rustle of the café.
G’raha exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing—but not entirely. A faint blush still lingered on his cheeks as he lifted his mug, fingers wrapped loosely around the warm porcelain.
“You handle fame remarkably well,” he murmured, a quiet admiration behind the words. “Most would revel in it. Bathe in the praise. But you… you meet it with grace.”
Lunabelle tilted her head slightly, a small shrug of one shoulder. “Fame was never something I desired,” she said, her voice even, “but I’d be lying if I said the joy in others’ eyes didn’t warm my heart. There’s comfort in knowing others' lives have been improved because of what we’ve done.”
His smile was slow and genuine, the corners of his mouth lifting with something tender. His tail swayed in a quiet rhythm behind him, betraying the thoughts he kept carefully measured.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “You always were humble… despite everything. The way you carry yourself, the way you care—it’s inspiring.”
He traced the rim of his cup absentmindedly, gaze falling inward.
“Do you ever tire of it?” he asked after a pause. “The constant battles. The responsibility. The… weight of it all?”
Lunabelle looked down into her mug then out the wide window beside them. The ocean shimmered far below, gilded now by the beginning hues of sunset.
“I suppose everyone wearies of their work eventually,” she said softly. “Even those who love it. But most days… I’m simply grateful to still be here. To live among those I love. That’s enough.”
G’raha’s expression shifted—less admiration now, and more concern. His gaze held hers with quiet intensity.
“You… the Scions… we’ve all lost so much,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Too much. And yet you carry it all. With such strength. Not just in battle, but here,” he tapped his chest lightly. “In spirit. I’ve always admired that about you.”
Her eyes softened. “You’re not without your own brave feats,” she murmured. “Arguably more selfless than mine. The Exarch… you… gave up everything.”
His ears drooped slightly at the mention. A shadow passed over his features, brief but unmistakable. He lowered his eyes, his fingers brushing the familiar fabric of his scarf as if it might anchor him.
“I did what needed to be done,” he said. “What any of us would’ve done. The tower… it took a lot from me. Sometimes I wonder if I gave too freely. If the choices I made were the right ones.”
His voice fell to a hush. “But today isn’t meant for that kind of talk, is it?”
He tried to summon a smile—something light, something to lift the moment. It almost reached his eyes.
Just then, Master Gifford returned with a steaming pot of coffee and a plate of delicate pastries dusted in sugar and spice. Lunabelle thanked him softly before turning back to G’raha, catching the fragile thread of their earlier conversation.
“You said you frequented this place as a student,” she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “What were you like back then?”
He brightened instantly at the question, tail flicking with enthusiasm.
“Ah, my student days…” he grinned. “Well, I was very serious. I always had my nose buried in books—mostly historical texts, of course. The other students teased me about it constantly.”
He chuckled, reaching for a pastry. “I developed a rather unfortunate habit of getting locked in the archives after hours. The librarians knew me by name. Some still do.”
Lunabelle sipped her coffee, the warmth of it grounding her. “So what you’re telling me is: you haven’t changed at all.”
He paused mid-bite, ears twitching. Her smile was amused, teasing.
“Well… perhaps not entirely,” he admitted, sheepish. “But I like to think I’ve gained some experience. Maybe a few leadership skills here and there. Thanks to my time as the Exarch.”
The pride in his voice was quiet, but genuine.
Lunabelle’s smile shifted—softened by something nostalgic. Something distant.
“Do you… consider yourself the same as the Exarch?” she asked, her tone thoughtful, not challenging. “You carry his memories. But you didn’t live them. Not firsthand. That must be… strange. Like seeing your own life secondhand.”
The lightness in G’raha’s demeanor dimmed, replaced by something more contemplative. He set down his pastry untouched.
“I try not to dwell on it,” he said after a moment. “The Exarch was me. And yet… he wasn’t. He carried the burden of centuries. Of solitude. I slept through all of it—suspended in time, unaware.”
He looked toward the window again, his eyes following the sun as it dipped lower on the horizon.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m chasing a version of myself I can never quite catch.”
Lunabelle was quiet, her fingers folding the edge of her napkin. She stared at the table, brows drawn in thought.
“I see,” she murmured.
He noticed the look on her face—gentle concern threaded with sadness—and his expression softened. Without hesitation, he reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. The contact was warm. Steady.
“I’m all right,” he said, reassuring. “Truly. The memories are part of me, but they don’t define me. What matters is now. Being here. With you. With the Scions. That’s what keeps me grounded.”
His thumb brushed lightly along the back of her hand, a gesture both comforting and grateful. He met her eyes, and this time, his smile reached all the way to them.
Lunabelle smiled in return, though something behind her gaze still lingered—like an echo of something left unspoken. But she held his hand a moment longer.
“I’m glad you’re here, G’raha,” she said.
G’raha’s heart gave a quiet stutter at her smile. There was something behind it—soft, sincere, yet distant, like the last embers of a fire smoldering low. Still, he returned the expression with his own.
“I’m glad too, Lunabelle,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “More than you know.”
His hand tightened gently around hers, his thumb brushing slow, thoughtful circles over her knuckles. The din of the café faded into a comfortable hush, the air around them folding in, intimate and still. He studied her face with quiet intent—the slight crease between her brows, the way her eyes lingered on a thought she hadn’t yet spoken aloud.
“Is something troubling you?” he asked, hesitant. “You seem… different today.”
Her gaze flicked to his, as if pulled from some deep, distant thought.
“Hm? Oh… it’s nothing,” she said lightly. “Just overthinking things, as I tend to do.”
G’raha’s ears twitched, catching the note of dismissal for what it was. He leaned in, his concern now unmistakable.
“Overthinking is your specialty,” he teased softly. “But I know when something’s weighing on you. You don’t have to carry it alone. You can tell me.”
His crimson eyes searched hers—gentle, unguarded. “We’ve been through too much for secrets now.”
Lunabelle lowered her gaze to their joined hands, her fingers curling slightly as if drawing strength from his. Silence lingered a moment longer before she spoke.
“Have you ever… missed someone,” she said, slowly, “even while they were standing right beside you?”
G’raha’s expression shifted. The playfulness ebbed away, replaced by quiet understanding
“Ah,” he murmured. “Yes. I know exactly what you mean.”
His mind wandered—unbidden—to the First. To his time as the Exarch. To the long, quiet ache of watching his friends through crystal, close enough to see but too far to touch.
“Sometimes their presence feels distant,” he continued. “Like they’re slipping away, even as they stand in arm’s reach.”
His voice softened further, gentle as falling leaves. “Is there someone in particular you’re thinking of?”
Lunabelle hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
“I… suppose there is,” she admitted, “though it’s not that they feel distant. Not exactly. Just… different. As if a part of them is elsewhere. Not gone. Just… changed.”
She gave a small, rueful smile. “Sorry. That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
G’raha shook his head, his expression warm.
“No, it makes perfect sense,” he said. “Sometimes people change. And it can feel like trying to sing a song you once knew by heart. But… different doesn’t mean lost. It might just mean they’re growing. Becoming something new. And while that change can be hard to follow, it doesn’t erase the bond you share.”
Lunabelle looked up at him, her smile gentle but clouded by something unspoken. “Yes… you’re right. I should be grateful. I am grateful. Having them at all… it’s a blessing.”
Her gaze dropped to the table again. “I suppose I’m being selfish,” she murmured. “Wishing they’d stay the same. That’s not what a good friend would do, is it?”
She turned her cup absently in her hands, the soft clink of porcelain filling the pause.
G’raha’s ears drooped, his concern returning.
“Lunabelle… you’re not a bad friend.”
His voice was quiet but firm. He leaned in again, earnest.
“You feel. And those feelings matter. You’re allowed to wish. To want. Even to be selfish sometimes.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a soft, helpless laugh. “I… thank you, G’raha. For listening.” Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “I think I understand now. A little better, at least.”
Relief eased into his features, though his eyes remained thoughtful, watchful.
“Anytime,” he said gently. “You’re never alone in your thoughts, not while I’m around. And whatever you choose, whatever you feel… I support you.”
Then, with a flicker of his usual mischief:
“Just promise me one thing.”
She tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“Take care of yourself too,” he said, tapping the table lightly with a grin. “You’re always so busy carrying everyone else’s burdens, you forget your own.”
Lunabelle smiled again, a touch more genuine this time—but still, in the quiet space behind her eyes, she wondered: Had he realized she’d been talking about him all along?
He finished the last bite of his pastry and glanced toward the clock on the wall, the evening light turning the café golden.
“Well,” he said, rising and offering her his hand, “it’s getting late. Perhaps we should return to the Annex before the others start imagining we’ve been whisked away by voidsent.”
Lunabelle took his hand, rising with him, her touch easy, familiar. “These pastries may very well be worth the risk,” she said, amused. “Master Gifford has outdone himself.”
G’raha laughed, his tail swishing merrily behind him.
“Indeed. I’ll be sure to inform him he has a new regular. Not that he hasn’t already guessed—your enthusiasm tends to leave an impression.”
They walked slowly toward the door, their steps unhurried. His hand remained in hers, natural now, like it belonged there.
“We should come back soon,” he said. “Maybe next time we bring the others?”
Lunabelle chuckled softly. “Alisaie would likely try every single cookie on the menu.”
G’raha laughed—an open, warm sound that lifted the air around them. “And then argue for seconds in the name of research.”
He opened the door for her, and the warm evening breeze of Sharlayan swept in, soft and salt-kissed from the sea. The light fell like honey across the cobblestones.
Lunabelle stepped out into it, pausing just a moment as if savoring the hush.
“That sounds lovely,” she said.
“It does, doesn’t it?” G’raha murmured, his voice softer now, as if afraid to disturb the quiet that had settled between them. His tail curled faintly, betraying the stirrings of contentment—or something gentler, harder to name. “Just… a sliver of normalcy. Amidst everything. We deserve that much, I think.”
They strolled together along the cobblestone paths, the moonlight casting long shadows across the street. Sharlayan at night was a different kind of beautiful—hushed, dignified, its usual scholarly bustle exchanged for the low whisper of sea breeze and the distant hum of street lamps.
“You know,” he continued, eyes turned toward the napalm sky, “when I was the Exarch, I never had time for moments like this. Everything was urgent. Critical. And I couldn’t leave the tower for long—its pull was constant.”
He exhaled quietly, as if letting go of a weight he still carried in his chest.
“It’s… nice, to just be. Not as a symbol. Not as a leader. Just… G’raha.”
Beside him, Lunabelle’s smile faltered, the shift subtle but felt. Her voice dropped into something more fragile.
“I can’t imagine what that must have been like…” she said.
G’raha glanced at her, catching the sorrow in her expression. His ears dipped slightly.
“It was… lonely,” he admitted. “But it had to be. My duty was clear. I had to find a way to save the First—even if it meant standing apart from the ones I cared for most.”
He paused beneath a streetlamp, its glow soft upon his features, and looked skyward—his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the clouds above.
“I used to wonder what it would feel like… to walk among my friends. To laugh without fear of time running out. To share my burdens, instead of quietly bearing them alone.”
His voice held no bitterness. Only a kind of yearning that came from having known both closeness and distance too intimately.
Lunabelle’s brows furrowed, her gaze thoughtful.
“What does it feel like,” she asked, “to remember a life you didn’t live? To carry memories that aren’t entirely yours?”
G’raha grew quiet, his expression pensive—troubled, even. One hand rose slowly to his temple, fingertips brushing just above his brow.
“It’s… strange,” he said at last. “Sometimes I remember things I shouldn’t—conversations, places, moments that never happened in this version of my life. Faces that feel familiar, though I’ve never truly met them.”
He lowered his hand, his voice growing quieter.
“It’s like… looking at yourself in shattered glass. Each memory is a piece of something whole, but they don’t fit quite right. They belong to someone else.”
Lunabelle’s eyes searched his profile, her own voice barely above a breath.
“Someone else…”
She tilted her head, watching the flicker of the dying evening light reflected in his eyes.
“So… you don’t think of yourself as the Exarch?”
G’raha’s ears flattened, and he sighed softly, the sound not one of weariness, but quiet admission.
“No,” he said. “Not truly.”
He looked down, then back at her, his crimson gaze raw with honesty.
“The Exarch is… a part of me. A piece carved from the same whole. He was brave, selfless, and more resolute than I’ve ever felt. But I’m not him. I’m G’raha Tia, still learning who I am beyond what he became.”
There was something vulnerable in his voice—something unguarded, like a book left open.
“Sometimes I miss the certainty he carried. That single-minded purpose. But… if holding on to that meant giving up moments like this—being here with you and the others—I wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.”
They slowed as the familiar steps of the Annex came into view, lanterns casting soft halos of light across the entrance. Lunabelle turned to him, her voice quiet.
“Thank you… for today,” she said. “It was nice. Just the two of us.”
G’raha smiled, and though his expression was warm, his gaze lingered a moment longer on her face, catching the small tremor in her smile.
“The pleasure was all mine,” he said gently. “I’m glad we had this time.”
He hesitated. Just a heartbeat. As if something more hovered on the tip of his tongue. But whatever it was, he left it unsaid.
“Until next time, then?” he added, slipping into a more familiar, playful cadence. “We’ll make that Scion outing happen. And I’ve no doubt Master Gifford will concoct new pastries just for the occasion.”
Lunabelle nodded, her voice soft. “I look forward to it.”
With that, she turned, her footsteps light against the floor as she made her way down the corridor. Over her shoulder, she offered a small wave.
“Goodnight, G’raha.”
He watched her go, lifting his hand in quiet farewell.
“Goodnight, Lunabelle,” he murmured. “Sweet dreams.”
She disappeared down the hall, the soft swish of her dress the last note of her presence.
G’raha lingered on the steps, his expression falling into shadow as she vanished from view. His tail slowed, stilled. A frown tugged faintly at his brow.
Something was troubling her. And though she hadn’t said it aloud… he couldn’t shake the quiet ache in his chest—the feeling that, somehow, he was the reason why.
In the quiet hush of her room, Lunabelle pressed her back against the closed door, a heavy sigh slipping past her lips. The space was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the wall-mounted crystal. Her eyes drifted toward the small drawer beside her bed. With practiced motion, she reached for it, pulling it open to retrieve the crystal soul vessel within, dulled now, its purpose long fulfilled.
The empty vessel felt colder than she remembered.
She turned it over in her hands, her thumb brushing across the stain of crystalized blood at its base—The Exarch’s blood. The remnant of a gift once given, a memory once carried.
“Just once more…” she whispered, almost too softly to hear. Her fingers curled tightly around the vessel. “Just once more… one last time.”
Elsewhere in the Annex, G’raha Tia lay awake in the quiet of his quarters, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. The room was still, but his thoughts were anything but.
He couldn’t shake the lingering image of her smile—the curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was something distant in her, something she hadn’t said. It gnawed at him now, more acutely in the stillness of night.
Then, suddenly—his ears twitched. A faint click echoed down the hallway. A door.
Too late an hour for such sounds.
He rose quietly, padding to his door and eased it open just enough to peer into the corridor. Through the shadows, he caught a glimpse of Lunabelle emerging from her room. She moved without noticing him, her steps careful, determined. In one hand, she clutched the soul vessel. In the other, a teleportation crystal shimmered faintly between her fingers.
With a swelling glow and warping of aether, she vanished.
G’raha stepped fully into the hallway, his pulse quickening. He hurried to the spot she’d stood moments ago, his hands hovering in the lingering threads of aether she left behind.
His brows drew together. The signature was familiar—undeniably so.
"North Silvertear…" he whispered, his heart lurching.
Without a second thought, he activated his own teleportation crystal, riding the residual current left in her wake.
The air at North Silvertear was cool and clear, heavy with dew and silence. He landed near the old outpost, the familiar scent of the highlands stirring something deep in his memory.
His eyes swept the terrain—until he spotted her.
Far ahead, Lunabelle’s small figure moved across the darkened landscape, her black cloak fluttering behind her in the wind. She was walking with purpose, her path unmistakable.
Toward the Crystal Tower.
Its vast silhouette loomed against the starlit sky. The jagged spires shimmered with blue light, distant and ethereal.
“Lunabelle… what are you doing out here?” G’raha murmured, following after her, careful to stay just beyond her awareness.
As the ground shifted beneath his feet, familiar paths unfurled—the Syrcus Trench, the ancient ruins, the long-forgotten corridors that had once felt like home. The closer they drew to the Tower, the more his unease deepened.
Lunabelle soon reached the great ornate doors of the Tower. They responded to her presence, parting effortlessly at her approach.
He froze.
“She… shouldn’t be able to…” he whispered.
Only one with Allagan blood should be able to pass. But she held the vessel—his vessel—imbued with his blood.
It recognized her.
She stepped inside with an eerie grace, as if she'd done it a hundred times before and the doors sealed behind her.
G’raha approached, his hand resting against the now sealed doors of the Tower’s entrance. His palm trembled.
“Impossible…” he murmured. “Unless…”
His throat tightened.
“The blood. The vessel. She's using it to—”
He couldn’t finish the thought. Fear quickened his steps as the doors parted once more, granting him entry without resistance.
The last time he had crossed this threshold… it had been to disappear from the world. To sleep. To wait.
He felt a shiver pass through him as he stepped into the tower once more.
Within, Lunabelle moved with certainty through the heart of the Tower. She bypassed long-abandoned terminals and glowing pathways, navigating the crystal halls as though led by instinct—or memory.
She entered the Ocular, the vast chamber of mirrored light and arcane hum. Its walls shimmered faintly.
She stepped forward and pressed her hand to the surface of the smooth crystalline wall, reflective like a mirror.
The portal to the First flickered to life.
She didn't hesitate. The light enveloped her, and she stepped through.
G’raha arrived only moments later, breath catching in his throat as he entered the Ocular.
“No—” he whispered, frozen in place as the portal flared before him.
He saw her silhouette disappear within, the crystal folding shut behind her.
His feet moved of their own accord, rushing forward too late.
“Lunabelle!”
Silence.
He stood alone in the gleaming chamber, the stillness of the room a stark contrast to the racing of his heart.
His hand found the mirrored crystal, and he pressed his palm to it with shaking fingers.
“The First…” he breathed.
The memories surged—of the Exarch’s sacrifices, of lives saved and lost, of time stretched too thin. He’d never set foot in that world as himself, but every inch of it lived inside him.
And now she had crossed over—alone.
“What are you doing, Lunabelle…?” he whispered, the portal awakening once more beneath his touch, responding to his blood. “Why…?”
The light surged forward, wrapping around him. He closed his eyes and stepped into the unknown.
When they opened again, the world around him was still and he found himself standing in the room he'd just left. As if he had walked through a mirror.
He stood among the ageless glow, suspended in that strange state of familiarity and dissonance. The air was heavier here—thick with the residue of aether, memory, and time itself. Magic pulsed faintly through the crystal walls, the ancient lattice humming like a distant heartbeat.
G’raha stood within the First's Ocular, the world around him at once recognizable and hauntingly different. He turned slowly, taking in the chamber, the way the light fell across the floor, the silence echoing in his ears. This place had once been his sanctuary. His prison. His watchtower.
The Exarch’s.
As he lingered in the stillness, he heard them—faint footsteps, high above him.
His ears twitched.
Lunabelle.
Without hesitation, he broke into a run, taking the spiraling steps two at a time. His heart pounded with every level he climbed, breath shallow, his thoughts racing. Memories surged as he ascended—of sleepless nights and lonely hours spent within this tower’s walls. Of sacrifices made in silence. Of time unraveling.
At the summit, beneath a vault of stars, Lunabelle stood before a familiar silhouette. The remains of the Exarch—his body now crystallized and unchanging—stood in the center of the chamber, awash in moonlight and memory. The cold gleam of the crystal cast long shadows behind her.
She smiled sadly, her expression soft with ache.
"Hello again… my dear friend,” she murmured.
She knelt before him, drawing a single flower from her satchel and placing it gently at the statue’s feet. A quiet offering, laid atop a scattering of faded petals—the ghosts of many visits past.
Behind her, silent and unseen, G’raha reached the summit and froze. He remained hidden in the shadows, breath caught in his throat as he beheld the scene before him.
Her quiet reverence. Her heartbreak. The truth in her expression.
This wasn’t her first time here.
She knelt before the crystal exarch, folding her hands in her lap, her voice trembling. “I... I know I shouldn't be here. You're not here anymore... you're back in the Source. We went out for coffee today... you were right beside me and yet... and yet it feels like you weren't there at all…”
Tears clung to her lashes. She stared up at the statue as though searching for a flicker of life that would never return. “Why does it still feel like you’re gone? He’s you… but… not.”
G’raha stood frozen, her words cleaving clean through him. He clutched the edge of the wall beside him, his knuckles pale.
He understood. Far too well.
“I miss you… so much.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, thick with sorrow. “And the worst part is… he’s right there. Every day. He looks at me with your eyes. Speaks to me with your voice. And yet… it’s not the same. It’s not you.”
Guilt twisted deep in G’raha’s chest. He stepped forward slightly but stopped himself again. He had no right to interrupt this moment. No words that could ease what she carried.
“I should be grateful,” Lunabelle continued softly, wiping her cheeks with shaking hands. “Grateful to have even a piece of you. But I keep coming back here. Like I’m waiting for something that will never happen. Gods… what’s wrong with me?”
Her voice broke on the last word.
Unable to hold himself back any longer, G'raha approached her slowly, his footsteps echoing softly against the crystal floor.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Lunabelle.”
Lunabelle's head snapped up. She stared wide eyed at the statue of the Exarch looming before her. For a moment she believed it had been him that spoke. That by some miracle he'd come back to life. But, of course, his visage remained cold and unmoving, ever lifeless.
She turned slowly—and there he stood.
"G-G’raha?” Her voice was barely audible, raw with shock. “What… what are you doing here?”
His eyes shimmered with emotion, and though his voice was soft, there was strength in it.
“I followed you. I was worried. You left without a word, and when I discovered where you were going... I couldn’t just let you come alone.”
He stepped closer, gaze drifting toward the Exarch’s statue. His reflection shimmered in the crystal’s surface.
“I heard what you said… about feeling like I’m not him. About how being near me doesn’t feel like having him back.”
Lunabelle flushed, her expression twisting with shame. “You… you heard all of it?”
He nods.
“Yes… I heard everything,” he admitted, his gaze not shying away. “And I understand why you feel that way. I… feel it too, more than I can ever say. The confusion, the weight of living as someone who is both me and not me.”
His hand hovered near her shoulder, hesitant—offering comfort, unsure if it would be welcomed.
“But, Lunabelle…” His voice softened further. “Please don’t feel guilty for coming here. I can only imagine how hard this must be—seeing me, speaking to me, and still feeling like you’re missing me… the other me.”
Lunabelle shook her head, her lip trembling as the first sob broke through her composure. Her eyes brimmed with tears again, and she covered her mouth in a futile attempt to keep the grief in.
“I… I’m sorry…” she choked out.
G’raha could bear it no longer. He stepped closer and gently laid a hand on her shoulder, his grip warm and grounding.
“Don’t apologize,” he said quietly. “You’ve done nothing wrong. If anything, I… I wish I could give you more than just memories—more than a soul that only remembers the life of another.”
His voice cracked at the edges. The emotions he’d held so tightly now threatened to spill over.
“The Exarch… he cared for you deeply. That much is carved into every memory I carry. But I… I care for you too. Not because I remember his feelings—but because I’ve come to know you as myself.”
With a sob she couldn’t contain, Lunabelle surged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Her body trembled as she buried her face against his shoulder.
“You don’t have to give me anything…” she whispered through muffled sobs. “Just… having you is enough…”
He froze for a breathless moment—then slowly, his arms enfolded her in return, careful, reassuring. He pressed his cheek to her hair, voice a quiet balm against the ache.
“I’m here, Lunabelle,” he murmured. “I may not be the Exarch, but I’m still me. And I’ll always be here for you—no matter what.”
His own tears welled at the corners of his eyes, spilling silently as he held her close. There were no perfect words for this—only the truth of his presence, and the steady thrum of shared sorrow.
She sniffled again. “It was foolish of me… to think you’d be exactly the same. I should’ve just been grateful to have you back at all. You could have been lost to me forever… and this—” she gestured toward the crystal visage “—this statue could have been all I had left of you.”
She shook her head, pressing her palms into her eyes “I’ve been a selfish fool. You’ve been here with me all along…”
G’raha gently eased back just enough to meet her eyes, his hands still resting softly on her shoulders. His gaze held steady, full of a tenderness she hadn’t yet allowed herself to see.
“You’re not a fool, Lunabelle. You’re grieving. And grieving doesn’t follow logic—it just… is.” He reached up, carefully brushing away the tears trailing down her cheek with the pads of his thumbs. His touch lingered, soft as the wind through the tower’s hollow silence.
“It’s hard, I know… to separate him from me in your heart. I understand. Truly. And I don’t expect you to let go of what you had with him.”
Lunabelle’s breath hitched as memories surged—every lingering glance the Exarch had given her, every quiet moment full of weight, every unsaid word balanced on the edge of forever. His presence had been like gravity—intense, silent, anchoring. And when she had watched the crystals take over his body, something in her had shattered alongside him.
With G’raha, things felt lighter. Warmer. Simpler.
And maybe… that was part of the ache.
As the memories danced behind her eyes, G’raha watched her closely. He could see the war within her, the emotions too large to name. A soft sigh escaped him, not of frustration, but of understanding.
“You looked at him differently,” he said gently. “Didn’t you?”
She blinked, startled by his perceptiveness.
“There was something deeper between you two,” he continued, choosing his words carefully. “And… I can’t replace that. I won’t try to. Whatever connection you shared—it was yours. Sacred. And it doesn’t make what we have… or could have… any less.”
He smiled faintly, a bittersweet curve of his lips.
“I’m not here to live in his shadow, Lunabelle. I’m here to make my own memories with you. Whatever they may be.”
His voice was a whisper, barely carried on the still air. Finally, Lunabelle asked softly, “Do you… remember? Not just what happened. But how it felt… to be him?”
G’raha's eyes turned distant, shadows passing through his expression.
“I remember… flashes,” he said at last. “Moments. The warmth of your laughter. The steadiness you gave me when everything else was slipping away. The way your hand felt in mine.” He lifted his own hand, as if remembering the shape of hers in his grip. “But it’s like trying to hold onto smoke.”
He looked back to her, gaze intense and searching.
“My feelings now—they’re mine. But sometimes… sometimes I see glimpses of how much he loved you. How fiercely he wanted to protect you.”
Another tear slid down Lunabelle’s cheek.
She’d given those memories back to him—but feelings were not so easily contained. They lingered, shapeless, intangible. And no matter how deeply she searched in G’raha’s eyes, the echoes would never fully match.
“I had hoped…” she murmured, “when I woke you from the tower, that things would just continue where they left off. That we could pick up where we’d ended in the First. But you’re right. You are your own person. You are him… but also not. And it was unfair of me to expect anything else.”
She looked away, guilt pulling at her shoulders. He reached out once more, brushing away that lone tear with a gentle sweep of his thumb. There was sadness in his smile—but also clarity.
“I don’t blame you for hoping,” he said softly. “After all we endured… anyone would. And I want to be someone you can rely on—someone who matters to you. Just… as me.”
His hand dropped slowly, and he took a single step back. “But I think we both have to stop measuring everything against what was. For both our sakes.”
“I… am trying.” she said softly.
Her gaze fell to the pile of wilted flowers at the foot of the Exarch’s crystal visage. The quietest offering. The loudest grief.
“I keep telling myself I’ll stop coming here,” she whispered. “That he’s not here anymore. That I carried him home myself… but something always pulls me back.”
G’raha followed her gaze to the base of the statue, where the withered flowers lay in silent vigil. His expression softened as he knelt beside them, brushing his fingers lightly over a curled, brittle petal—so fragile it nearly crumbled at his touch.
“You carry him in your heart, Lunabelle,” he murmured, his voice almost reverent in the echoing stillness. “That’s something that can never be taken from you. These visits… I understand. They’re your way of keeping him close—even if only through memory.”
He stood again, his gaze lifting to the crystalline form of his other self. Light refracted across the surface, catching in the angles of the statue’s face, casting dancing rainbows along the floor.
“Perhaps what you need isn’t to stop coming here entirely,” he continued, his tone quiet, thoughtful. “But to find a new way to honor him. One that lets you remember him without hurting so much. One that lets you breathe.”
Lunabelle's shoulders tensed, her chest rising and falling with the effort to keep the tears at bay. The mere idea of accepting his loss felt like a betrayal—and yet, standing beside the living echo of him made that loss feel even more surreal. Her eyes burned as she swallowed thickly, unable to speak.
G’raha noticed the shift in her posture, the tightness that coiled through her limbs. His ears twitched slightly, picking up on her distress before she could even voice it. He turned to face her again fully, his concern immediate and unwavering.
“I’m here, Lunabelle,” he said softly, stepping closer without pushing. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not unless… you want me to.”
His words carried a quiet strength, a promise wrapped in warmth and patience
“Let me help you carry this burden,” he offered, his hand reaching halfway to hers before pausing. “Not to replace the past—but to build something new. Memories that are ours, not shadows of what once was.”
The early sun stretched across the Crystal Tower’s high peaks, casting long golden shafts that met the cool blue light of the walls. It painted them in shades of both warmth and sorrow. The light kissed the edges of the Exarch’s statue, scattering glimmering fragments of rainbow across the floor like scattered stardust.
Lunabelle’s breath caught.
“No…” she whispered, shaking her head sharply. “No, I’d never want you to go.”
She stepped forward and seized his hand, squeezing it tightly in hers. “Please… Let’s… let’s go home now.”
G’raha’s heart eased at her words. Relief washed over his features as he gently squeezed back, his fingers weaving through hers. “Alright,” he said with a quiet smile. “Let’s go home.”
Side by side, they turned from the crystal statue. G’raha stayed close, steady in his warmth, his silence respectful as they began the descent. Lunabelle glanced back once, her gaze lingering on the figure that had once been the exarch. And this time, she didn’t feel like she was leaving him behind.
G’raha caught her hesitation, and gave her hand a gentle tug.
“He’ll always be a part of you, Lunabelle,” he said softly. “But now… now you have a new part of him walking beside you.”
As they returned to Sharlayan, dawn had broken in full. The golden light spilled across the cobblestones, painting the city in warmth and welcome. The familiar rooftops and trees greeted them like old friends. For the first time in many nights, Lunabelle felt lighter.
She exhaled slowly, quietly. “I… I’m sorry about all this,” she said, eyes flicking to his. “It’s such a strange thing—to mourn someone who’s still standing right in front of you.”
G’raha chuckled softly, the sound tinged with a wistful sort of affection.
“Strange indeed,” he agreed. “But the heart rarely plays by the rules. I understand.” He looked at her then—not just with understanding, but with something deeper. Something steadier.
“I might be a living memory of him, but…” he smiled, his voice gentle. “I’m still me. And I hope, in time, you’ll see that as something good—not something to apologize for.”
Lunabelle raised her head, meeting his gaze with something steady and earnest in her own.
“But… you are him,” she said. “Unburdened by a ruined world... Unburdened by the weight of your responsibility. You are... the version of the Exarch that did not live in constant fear and pain.... and I suppose in some way you have given him the chance to live again... in peace”
G’raha’s ears flicked again, his expression thoughtful. He came to a stop, gently tugging her hand so she would face him fully.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured. “I carry his memories—but not his pain. Not his duty. The Exarch was… always heavy with sacrifice. And now…”
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face with quiet care. His fingers lingered there, soft against her skin.
“…Maybe this is the peace he never allowed himself to find. But if that’s true—Lunabelle, it was you who gave it to him. You brought him home. You gave him… gave me that chance.”
His voice softened again, carrying something intimate, something sacred.
“And you… you deserve peace too.”
Lunabelle met his gaze, holding it with unflinching sincerity.
“Then promise me,” she whispered, “that you will be happy. And if the world starts to weigh on you again… if that burden returns… seek me out. Don’t bear it alone. Not again.”
G’raha paused, her words anchoring in his chest like a vow etched in crystal. His hand in hers tightened just slightly, and his eyes shone with something like wonder.
How many promises had they exchanged over the course of two lives? And yet, this one… this one felt like the simplest. And the most sacred.
He smiled, full and bright and warm.
“I promise, Lunabelle,” he said, his voice steady with truth. “If you’ll stand beside me… I promise.”