This is keeping.
This — might be love.
“Come with me outside,” I say.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Now?”
I nod. “Walk beneath the planetlight with me.”
“Planetlight?” she asks with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess it’s not moonlight…we’re ON the moon.”
We walk beneath the silent dome of the sky. No armor. I left bone-spurs in my quarters, traded war-gear for a simple belt and the cloak wrapped tight around my shoulders. The night air spills across our skin like a promise: damp, cold, scented faintly of pine and distant rain from the forest below.
Her footsteps are quiet against the stone walkways — careful, soft, human. Mine echo, heavy but measured, each step a declaration that I’m trying to be something different than what I was born for.
The world around us hums: distant turbine pulses, the hiss of hydro-vents far below, starlight glinting through the planet’s thin atmosphere. The glow from the gas giant above is muted — a gentle blue wash over the world instead of sharp moonlight. Still, it is enough.
We don’t talk. We don’t need to. The silence between us breathes.
After ten minutes, I guide us off the main walkway, through dim brush and over half-worn barrens, where the undergrowth scratches at ankles and memories ache like old scars.
I find the waterfall first. A narrow ribbon of water falling from a fractured cliff, pooling in a basin carved by wind and time. The water glows faintly — bioluminescent algae inside, stirred by the cascade, reflecting the planet-light from above. The pool sloshes quietly, sending ripples across its surface.
I step forward. I move close. The air tastes of mineral-wet stone, cold water spray, and something else — hope.
I turn, waiting for her to follow. She does. Soundless, tentative.
We stand by the edge. I slip out of my cloak. The metal belt clicks loose. The wind tosses my short hair.
She watches. Not with fear. Not with awe. Something softer. Curious. Guarded.
I reach out, slow. Hand open.
She takes it. Fingers lace around mine. Her skin is warm despite the night’s chill. Smooth, alive.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asks — voice soft, unsure, vulnerable.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead I dangle my feet over the pool, let water run over my sandals. Cold. Sharp. Like the first cut after a long war.
“This,” I say after a moment. “Because I needed to remind myself — there’s more than iron and bone in the world. More than conquest. More than death.”
She squeezes my fingers. I feel tremble. Not mine. Hers. Guardian-slender. Fragile-strong.
She turns to the pool. The water glints under the planetlight. I slide my arm around her waist — careful, tentative. My fingers rest flat against the cold fabric of her uniform. She doesn’t stiffen. Instead she leans in only a little, the lean of someone deciding whether or not to trust.
“Tell me about jalshagar.” Her voice is a whisper. “What is it — really?”
I draw a breath. The night air fills my lungs with pine and regret and longing. I lean so that my ear is near her mouth.
“Jalshagar,” I begin, “is more than bond. More than blood run together. It’s fire carved in soul and spirit. When bloodlines die or planets burn, a jalshagar lasts. It ties two hearts across time — beyond clan, beyond death, beyond stars.”
I shift so the stars overhead shimmer between us. I sneak a glance at her eyes — green, bright. Afraid. Wanting. Searching.
“When you love someone like that,” I continue softly, “you don’t just claim them. You carry them. In your scars. In your past. In every breath you take.”
Her silence says nothing about belief. Just a quiet hardness settling behind those green eyes.
“I don’t know if I believe in soulmates,” she whispers. Her words tremble on the air, like a ship about to snap in half under pressure.
