“I believe so,” Cael replied, after a moment. “Though I confess I have no prior experience for comparison.”
“Neither do I,” Damian admitted. “I have friends. Corrin, a few of my patients. But this feels...” He trailed off.
“Different,” Cael finished.
“Yeah. Different.”
They sat in silence, the only sound the distant tolling of Varos’s great hourglass and the hum of candles burning low. Damian realized he was more aware than ever of Cael’s nearness—the way the air changed, the invisible tension, the almost-tangible comfort.
“Can I ask something?” Damian said finally.
“Of course.”
“Do you… like being here? With me? Or is it just… obligation?” The word left him raw, embarrassed by the honesty in it.
Cael’s answer came slowly, as if searching for words he’d never spoken. “Enjoyment is new to me. I’m not certain I understand it. But… when I am here, I feel present. As if the world has color and shape I never noticed before.”
Damian laughed softly, the sound slipping out before he could stop it—a real, startled joy. “You make it sound like I’m painting your world for you.”
“In a way,” Cael said, voice gentle as starlight. “You are. Each conversation, each moment—I learn something new about what it means to be.”
The words settled between them, soft but immense, like the hush after a prayer. For a long heartbeat, Damian let the meaning unfurl in the quiet—realizing, perhaps for the first time, that his life was changing not just his own world, but something far larger and older than himself.
He swallowed, a warmth rising in his chest that had nothing to do with magic. “Then I hope you see something worth keeping,” he whispered.
Cael didn’t answer right away, but in the deep stillness, Damian sensed the presence draw closer—a silent promise, as if the darkness itself was listening, and grateful.
Night fell. Damian changed into his nightclothes, aware in a new way of Cael’s unseen gaze. He felt exposed and safe all at once—a confusing mix. He settled into bed, blankets pulled up to his chin, and asked, “Do you sleep?”
“Not as you understand it,” Cael replied. “I rest in the Threads, but I don’t lose consciousness. I am always aware. It can be… exhausting.”
Damian’s throat tightened. “That sounds terrible. No wonder you’re drawn to watching people sleep. The peace of it.”
“Perhaps,” Cael said, his voice closer than ever, “but I suspect my interest in your sleep has more to do with you specifically than with mortals in general.”
Heat raced through Damian at the words. “What do you mean?”
“I find myself… protective of your vulnerability. Concerned for your wellbeing in ways that have nothing to do with cosmic function.”
Damian lay silent, his heart stuttering. “I sleep better when you’re here,” he whispered. “Knowing someone is watching over me.”
“Then I will continue to watch. For as long as you wish it,” Cael answered.
Sleep found Damian easily that night. For once, his dreams were gentle: candlelight, quiet laughter, the sensation of being seen and wanted—not for his skills, but simply for being himself. He woke with the sense that he’d been in conversation all night, though he couldn’t remember the words.
The next day, curiosity pulled Damian out into the city. He moved quickly, senses tuned for danger, until he reached the Library of the Last Breath. The ancient archive smelled of dust, wax, and memory—hundreds of years of secrets piled high, all but forgotten by the new regime.
The librarian, an ancient Hollow whose consciousness had thinned to little more than function, greeted him with a silent nod. Damian asked, “I need records on soul-thread binding. Anything about connections between mortals and cosmic entities. Theory, myth, anything.”
The Hollow led him through shadowy aisles. Damian’s fingers traced the spines of battered tomes, searching, until a particular page caught at his touch—raised ink, careful looping script. His mother’s handwriting.
He heard her voice in the hush of the library, an echo from another life. Her notes were bolder than he’d imagined: rituals to bind souls across death, warnings about the risks and gifts of linking mortal and cosmic essence. One warning, underlined twice, stopped him cold:
The greatest risk in soulbinding is not magical recoil, but the permanent change in both. The mortal becomes more than flesh; the cosmic, more than function. Each is rewritten by the bond.
The truth settled in his bones: his mother’s final spell was never just about protection. It was a promise—he would never have to face the world alone.
He closed his eyes, pressing trembling fingers to the page. “You wanted me to find someone. You wanted me to be seen.”
