We step out into the night together. The door slides shut behind us with a hiss that echoes like a death-bell, but it only spits stale air — nothing more.
Outside, Storder’s moons glow faintly — twin silver arcs over the forest line, stars scattered like shattered glass overhead. The scent of pine and damp leaves hits my nostrils. The air tastes alive — wild.
I walk first, leading the way down the slope. The ground beneath my boots is soft with regrown dirt, warmed under pale lamps, but now cooled under starlight. I feel the weight of everybone-spur plate, but it no longer feels like armor. It feels like a shell I can open.
I glance back.
She’s there. The cloak hugs her shoulders. The hood falls slightly. Her boots step carefully over smooth earth. I think I see awe in her eyes — maybe fear, but not retreat.
I stop at the edge of the clearing.
“Look,” I murmur.
She steps forward, slow, tentative. The field opens before her: dozens of glowing moss patches, each a soft blue light under the night. They look like stars fallen through soil, sprouting light instead of death. Each one pulses faintly — alive and trembling under unchanged moons.
She reaches out. Her fingers hover. Not touching. Nervous. Sacred.
The scent of moss — wet earth, green sap, ozone from starlight and mist — fills the air. Cold. Soft. Alive. Not bone. Not blood.
I watch her. His great form, quiet. Respect. Hope.
Her hand dips low, brushing the topmost leaf of one moss — gentle, careful. The light shimmers under her touch, flickering like a pulse in a dying lung. She gasps softly — breath caught, body trembling. Her lips part.
I can hear her. In the hush.
She breathes: “It’s beautiful.”
I nod. My own breath tastes of iron and earth and longing.
I step forward, softly — careful — until the light from the moss washes across my face, turning red eyes soft, bone ridges mellow.
Without touching, I lean close, letting my shadow drape over hers like a promise.
“Only for you,” I whisper.
Her eyes flick up. Uncertain. Cautious. But not afraid.
She lifts her hand again, touches the moss more deliberately. The glow intensifies — small, steady heartbeat lights under night’s black.
I don’t reach for her. I don’t claim. I don’t demand.
Not this time.
I breathe in the damp air. The moss, the threat of rain, the pulse of forest deep beneath — the smell of growth.
I let the silence fill the space between us.
And I wait.
For the first time, the void feels like a door opening — not a crater.
Because she might walk through.
And if she does — whatever comes next, I’ll meet it with fingers open.
Because this? This is not conquest.
This is care.
