I let my hand fall.
She needs space. Time to process what just happened. And chasing after her now—trying to explain something I don’t understand myself—would be selfish. Would be about easing my own guilt rather than respecting her pain.
Even if every instinct I possess screams at me to follow.
To find her. Protect her. Keep her close.
There’s a pressure in my chest that feels like compulsion. I ignore it.
I pace the small cabin instead. Three steps to the far wall. Turn. Three steps back. The space suddenly feels too small. Too confining.
Lyria.
Who is she?
I close my eyes, reaching for the memory that spoke her name without permission.
Pieces surface. Disjointed. Distant.
A woman’s face—pale skin, dark hair, eyes I can’t quite focus on. Rain falling. The scent of fire. A laugh that made something in my chest ease.
Then grief. Sharp enough to make my breath catch.
Loss.
But the emotion feels… wrong. Disconnected. Like trying to feel warmth from a fire that burned out centuries ago. The shape of it remains—duty, honor, an oath I can’t remember making—but the heat is gone.
I owe her something. This Lyria. Some debt of honor my body remembers even if my mind doesn’t.
But what I feel when I think of her isn’t love.
It’s obligation.
The realization should bring clarity. Instead, it makes everything worse.
Because if Lyria is duty, then what is Mara?
The woman whose absence tears at me like missing a limb. Whose scent I can still taste on my lips. Whose body fit against mine like it was made for that purpose alone.
I scrub my hands over my face.
What have I done?
Mara gave me everything. Her body. Her trust. Her vulnerability laid bare in a way I know—know—doesn’t come easily to her.
And I repaid that gift by calling her someone else’s name.
The pacing continues. Five minutes. Ten. I’m wearing a groove in the dirt floor.
She said she needed space. Said she didn’t want me there.
So I stay. Even though it tears at something fundamental in my chest.
Even though her absence feels wrong in ways I can’t articulate.
The questions circle endlessly. No answers. Just the hollow ache of Mara’s absence and the name I can’t take back.
Lyria.
