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“Thank you for taking me here.” Caedes' voice was low and reverent; a whisper breathed against the shell of Lynire's ear as he buried his face in her hair. “This was magical.”
In the quiet darkness of the theater, his words echoed softly, like a prayer murmured into the nightly silence of a church.
They had slipped back in after the show and made themselves comfortable in the plush velvet chairs, a half-emptied bottle of wine resting on the seat next to them.
“I knew you'd like it.“ Lynire turned to brush her lips against his forehead ever so slightly. “Would've been a shame if a dreamer like you never got to experience the beauty of a good play.”
In his tiny hometown back in Spain, there had been no such thing as a theater. Just miles and miles of forests and fields, and the familiar villages nestled between the trees and plains. His father's backyard and the warmth of the bakery.
And ever since he had moved in with his mother's noble family, no one had cared enough to plan pastimes for him beyond his regular tutoring sessions. In a way, he was more isolated now than ever before — his little village back home was no bustling city, but at least people had looked him in the eye there. Greeted him. Offered help when he needed it most.
“These people are all so talented,” he marveled. The pompous lines spoken with such ardor, the music reverberating throughout the hall, the intricate costumes, the twists and turns of the play that had tugged and torn at his heart — he had barely dared to blink during the show. “If I didn't know better, I'd believe they actually were those characters in a heartbeat.”
“That's the magic of theater.” Lynire gestured toward the stage. “It's all make-believe — but when it's good, it makes you forget that for a little while.”
“Like a good book.” Ever since his sister and his tutors had taught him how to read, Cae had fallen in love with the written word, so the comparison came naturally.
“Exactly. And like a good book, a good play isn't just mindless entertainment, either. Everyone pours a bit of themselves into it. That's what makes it so special.”
“I wish I could do that.” Cae sighed. “Create stories people will enjoy and feel touched by. It seems so … rewarding.“
“What's stopping you from trying?”
“I don't know if I'd be any good at it,” Cae admitted. “And … my family might find out.“
He didn't want to imagine the embarrassment of having his relatives discover something he'd poured his heart into, like the artists he so admired did; something so passionate and personal only a room full of strangers should be privy to witnessing it.
“They would never know. Or do you really think the great royal family would stoop to watching some amateur theater?”
Cae snickered at the thought. “Probably not. But still.”
“Also, do you really care what your family thinks?” Her voice grew quieter, more serious now. “They barely give a damn about you beyond stopping you from being a disgrace to their heritage. Forget them.”
“Yeah. You're right. Maybe I should.” If only he could. But a family like his wasn't that easy to ignore, let alone forget.
“You could try out for a local group. See if you like it. They're always looking for people.“
A cheeky grin spread across Cae's face — the perfect distraction. “Do you think it would impress my crush if I did? She likes that kind of stuff. A sophisticated girl, I'll tell you. Big fan of the arts, and blessed with impeccable taste, too.“
Lynire's laugh was warm and lithe, a lovely contrast to this oppressively cold February night. She snuggled closer and gently nipped at his neck.
“One day, you'll be up there,” she whispered, every word a caress of his flushed skin. “Believe me — you're going places. A sweet talker like you is bound to charm the masses.”
*
“I applied.”
Cae realized he said that out of nowhere, as if he was scared to confess, even though no one but Lynire was listening here in the woods.
“Applied where?” she asked, shooting him a curious glance.
He kicked a small stone across the trodden path and let his gaze follow. “A theater group a few towns over.”
Birds chirped above them, hidden somewhere among the canopy of trees that spanned far and wide.
Lynire arched an eyebrow. “And?”
Cae shrugged. “They want me to learn the lines for their next practice. To see if I fit in with the group.”
As they came to a crossroad, Lynire sat down on a mossy tree stump by the wayside. “Practice, then.”
Cae blinked. “Now?”
“Now.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward, eyes fixed on him. “I'm listening.”
“I—uhh, I don't have the script with me,” he muttered. “But I'll do my best.”
He cleared his throat and began to recite what he remembered. The first few lines flowed well enough; he had read the script endlessly these past few nights, and of course, the beginning had stuck the best.
Feeling Lynire's attentive gaze on him had his pulse racing, but he figured that was a good thing. He had to get used to having an audience, after all, if he wanted to make it onto the stage.
“And remember, young lady: The stars watch over those who … uh … ” Just when the character was about to give some sound life advice to the protagonist, he stumbled over his words. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. “Over those who read the script properly, I guess. Sorry.”
Lynire broke into the kind of laughter that made his heart sing. “You'll get the hang of it soon. Until then, this is going to be excellent entertainment.”
Cae countered with an exaggerated bow and a sheepish grin, his cheeks feeling hot. “For your viewing pleasure only, my little dove.”
*
“I got in, by the way.”
Cae's eyes kept on tracing the glimmering waves and the pale foam, the evening sun reflected within.
“You did?”
“Yeah. Say hello to Wise Man Number Three.” He turned to Lynire, a grin spreading on his face.
They had been walking for some time now, barefoot along the same shore where he had taken her for their first date. The beach was mostly deserted except for a woman walking her dog in the distance, and the sea was gentle that day, a lazy lover rolling back to hug the sand languidly again and again — no rush, no pressure. He couldn't remember where they'd left their shoes, discarded somewhere in a flash of impulsiveness and laughter, but he didn't mind. Shoes were replaceable. This moment wasn't.
“I knew you had it in you,” Lynire said, jabbing him in the side with her elbow. “Congratulations!”
“It's just a small role,” he conceded. “But yeah. It's still amazing. I never would have tried if it hadn't been for you.”
Lynire smirked and took a sip from the open bottle of wine in her hand, then held it out to Cae. “What can I say? I'm a great partner.”
She was. And he still didn't know what he had done to deserve her.
He washed the bittersweet thought down with the dry red they'd chosen, and soon, they settled onto a rock formation peacefully tucked into a little cove.
They sat in silence for a long while, watching the waves drench the sand at their feet only to retreat again mere seconds after. Time moved differently at the edge of the ocean; fleeting moments dragged out into endlessness, just like the vast water stretched out before them until it met the glowing horizon. The evening sun warmed their faces, the coastal breeze tousled their hair, and in the blissful calm of that sundown, Lynire's fingers interlaced with his.
“I'll be there.”
Cae perked up. “Really?”
“Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
Wordlessly, he kissed the last traces of wine from her lips. His hands found her hips effortlessly, and he pulled her on top of him, not minding the wet sand that clung to both of their clothes.
*
Under the bright light of three chandeliers and the weight of too many gazes, Caedes felt uncomfortably numb.
He'd been nervous. Dreaded the opening night for months, although not for the reason he'd expected when he'd first joined the group.
He recited his lines correctly, didn't stumble over his own feet or his words. But he barely felt a thing all throughout. For once, he appreciated how small his role was — because it allowed him to avoid addressing the crowd, focusing on his fellow actors instead.
Lynire was supposed to be there.
If he hadn't—
He remembered her smile when he told her he'd applied for the group, and the way her eyes lit up when he announced that he'd gotten a role in the next play.
Now, the entire audience had their attention on him, but the one pair of eyes he was performing for was sorely missing.
Her voice had haunted him all throughout the rehearsals. She'd been in every piano note, every heartfelt word in his script, every artificial longing touch tuned to perfection for the performance. Sometimes, the melodies the orchestra had practiced had carried the exact cadence of Lynire's laughter when she was teasing. The dialogue meant for the play had bled into the echoes of their time spent together until Cae had been unable to tell what was real and what was just pretend. Minuscule, fractured moments that had made his throat feel tight, his chest endlessly heavy.
But now, on the stage, Lynire's absence weighed as heavily as an anchor tied around his neck. He was drowning in the emptiness her loss had left in him, and all he could do was put on the mask he had gotten so intimately familiar with, in hopes no one would see through it.
The melodies that should have been gentle background music permeated his every thought, making it hard to focus. He remembered humming them to Lynire, trying to give her a better idea of the play. Every note lingered too long, the rhythm felt off — like the ghost of a song transported into a moment it didn't belong to.
No one else seemed bothered by it. Maybe it was just nerves. Or maybe the theater, in its own stagnant way, was mourning what should have been, too.
Caedes felt his co-actors grabbing his hands as they bowed for the audience. The play had passed him by in a blink, and the touch felt strange and disconnected, like his body wasn't really his. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from 10. Again and again, until the applause ceased and he could turn away from the room full of people who had come to watch.
She was supposed to be there. But she wasn't. She would never be again, and it was all his fault.
*
“You did so well!”
A vaguely familiar voice made Caedes jolt. He spun around to spot a face he couldn't put a name to — a brunette girl in a light pink dress, smiling at him.
Looking around, he found himself surrounded by people in formal clothes. The sound of clinking glasses and hearty laughter rang in his ears.
The dance. After the show.
The town had organized it in honor of the theater group's 10-year anniversary. Despite its small scale, they had paid great attention to detail; from decorations to little appetizers on platters, everything looked just like a real ball, only smaller.
Despite its painstakingly imitated glitz and glamour, the whole room looked like an empty schematic to Cae. The excitement and revelry of the other partygoers didn't reach him; not even a celebration of the work he had poured so much of himself into could fill the gaping hole inside of him.
He remembered agreeing to come. Feeling honored to be invited. He even remembered inviting the girl he now barely recognized.
“Thank you.” He choked up the words even though they felt dry in his throat. “That's kind of you to say.”
He nodded along as her words melted into the cacophony of sounds making his head spin, and her hand felt strange on his arm as he escorted her to the buffet first, then to the dance floor.
For a split second, an involuntary image flashed in his mind: Lynire smiling at him from behind loose strands that escaped her updo, a collier of silver and sapphires lining her lovely neck, complemented by a deep blue dress. An immaculate blend of elegance and wildness, kindness and thrill, softness and cold, just like the ocean they had marveled at together countless times.
I wouldn't miss it for the world, she'd said. He almost felt her words on his skin, and knew she had meant them; knew that nothing could have stopped her from being here by his side right that moment.
If it hadn't been for his own grave mistakes.
He shook the vision off. His legs and feet felt stiff and automatic moving to the music as the song swelled to a passionate crescendo, loud and wrong in his ears. It was nerve-grating, despite the flawless efforts of the musicians playing their instruments in such practiced harmony. A headache began to bloom behind Cae's temples, the dissonance of this celebration and the way he felt inside too much to bear.
“You seem distracted.” His companion frowned. “Don't worry. You were so good on stage. I'm sure they'll have you back for another play.“
“Yeah,” he said, barely registering her words. “Sure.”
All he could think of was Lynire's blood-stained face. Her lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. The cut that had severed her head from her body.
He had brought this upon himself; it had been revenge, after all. A life for a life. It was only fair, he figured. And yet, he couldn't convince himself that it was nothing but a logical consequence. If only he hadn't gotten roped into the intrigues of the royal court—
He shouldn't have done what the queen, his aunt, had whispered into his ear. Trading his own freedom for the life of his cousin's partner, a commoner deemed unworthy by the royals — he should have known he would have to pay for such a heinous crime.
If he could have guessed that his sins would snuff out the only light in his world — an existence so radiant it had threatened to rival the rising sun — maybe, just maybe, he would have decided differently.
But he hadn't. Hadn't guessed, hadn't thought about it properly, hadn't made a better decision. And the punishment was twistedly fitting. He had taken someone else's biggest treasure; now he was forced to share that same pain. The emptiness. The grief. The bleak truth that haunted him everywhere he went. The lingering presence that gnawed at him day and night. The absence that ached like a broken bone unable to heal.
He realized he had zoned out when his companion tapped him on the shoulder and stepped away.
“I'll go get something to drink,” she said, her lips pressed into a tight line. She was gone before he could reply.
He stared after her, and over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of a figure he would have recognized anywhere.
He blinked. That … couldn't be. And it wasn't. When he looked again, she was gone.
All throughout the night, the music kept on haunting him as he twirled around the dance floor, a stranger in his arms where Lynire should have been.
*
When the lights went out, Cae barely remembered the past few hours, and yet the relief of getting to disappear soon washed over him like a tidal wave.
“I'll get going,” his companion said dryly. “I have to be home before midnight.”
He had almost forgotten that she was still there.
“Tonight was fun,” he lied.
She snorted. “Hardly.”
“Look, I'm sorry. I know I've been … barely there.” Cae let out a deep sigh, rubbing his elbow. “Let me walk you home.“
He wondered if it would always be like this from now on. How could he ever be fully present in a relationship, even a date, again, knowing what had happened last time he'd opened up?
“You shouldn't have invited me, then,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “What's the point of going to a party together if you can't even pay me any attention? I'll find the way out myself, thank you.”
Cae's heart sank. “You're right. I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry.”
It had been a desperate attempt to cling to normalcy while everything was falling apart. And in trying to cope with his own pain, he had ended up hurting someone who wasn't guilty of anything except fancying him enough to agree to a date.
The girl rolled her eyes. “Well, at least the buffet was delicious. And they had decent champagne.”
A joyless laugh escaped his lips, and frozen, he watched as she stomped away without saying goodbye.
He slipped out into a corridor, sank against a wall, and pulled his knees up to his chest. All he could do was breathe and let the darkness wash over him.
Once the building had gone eerily silent — and it felt like hours until it did — he strolled back into the showroom. Somehow, he had avoided anyone checking the building, or brushed them off; he didn't quite remember, if he was being honest.
There was no wine this time. No Lynire. But at last, he found himself back where his dream of the stage had started: In an unlit theater after closing, all its wonders hidden away from the world for a few hours.
The music from the show still replayed in his head, even though no one was there to play a single note anymore.
Without thinking, he climbed onto the stage and sat at its edge, looking over at the abandoned rows spread out below.
One day, you'll be up there, Lynire had said. Believe me.
Now he was, and all he wanted was to go back to that moment; all he wished was that she could have gotten to keep her other promise, too.
I'll be there.
She wasn't. No matter how often he saw her face in the crowd, no matter how real her voice seemed when she whispered to him in quiet and busy moments alike — she was gone.
And he only had himself to blame.