Archive of Our Own ^beta

1181.

Memory is a fickle thing. It doesn’t store whole days like neat scrolls in the royal archives. No. It snatches fragments: the smell of wax on stone floors after cleaning, the feel of cold marble under bare heels as you run, breaking all rules of etiquette, and the cry of seagulls over the inner courtyard. And light. Especially light – that special, honey-amber light that poured through the high stained-glass windows of the royal gallery in the mornings, painting the floating dust in knightly colors – purple, gold, scarlet.

Mike woke from it even before the trumpeters on the eastern tower sounded the morning call. His room in the knights' quarters, modest but spacious, faced the inner garden. He lay on a rather hard straw mattress, covered by a rough but clean woolen blanket, and watched the first rays flare up on the stone windowsill, kiss a stack of worn books with tales of heroic deeds, and slowly creep across the floor toward his bed. The predawn silence hung in the air, thick and resonant, broken only by the distant splash of water from the garden fountain and the rare steps of the patrol in the inner courtyard. He was ten, and the world was infinitely simple and clear, like the blade of his first training sword: there was the King, there was the Kingdom, there was duty and honor. And there was them.

The game began, as always, spontaneously.

After morning lessons with the fencing master, where he was beaten on the hands with a wooden stick for an improper stance, and the most boring lessons on history and grammar with a gray-haired tutor, Mike broke free. The sun was already high, turning Hawkins Castle from a grim, majestic fortress into a place full of secret corners and hideaways. He ducked through an arch leading to the West Garden – a place officially intended for court ladies, but long since claimed by three restless souls.

The air here was different: not stuffy and solemn like the throne room, but alive, filled with the scent of lavender, rosemary, and damp earth. Cypress trees stretched toward the sky like dark green arrows, and in the center, a marble fountain with a triton figure spouted. And right there, on the warm stones by the water, he found them.

Jane, not yet Princess with a capital P, but just Jane, with chestnut hair braided into two messy plaits, sat with her legs tucked under her in a simple canvas dress of purple. She was excitedly explaining something, waving her hands, her brown eyes burning with fiery mischief. Spread before her on a piece of velvet lay strange objects: a gilded chalice resembling the one missing from the chapel the previous week, several polished river stones, and an old, tarnished knightly order medal belonging to her grandfather.

And Will...

Will was magic.

He stood on the low parapet wall surrounding the fountain, balancing with a focused expression. But this was not Will as the court knew him – the quiet, polite boy, a shadow trailing his friends. This was Grand Wizard Will the Wise, master of shadows and stars. He wore that cloak – purple, almost violet, made of a light, almost weightless fabric once brought from the distant East. It was too big for his thin child's frame and dragged on the stones. The cloak was sprinkled with embroidered silver stars and crescent moons that shimmered, catching the sunlight at the slightest movement. On his head – a pointed cap of the same color, from which a ridiculous little bell hung. In his hand – not a stick, but the Staff of Prophetic Dreams, a common hazel branch crowned with a smoky quartz crystal tied with silver thread.

But most of all, even then, Mike watched his face, mesmerized. Chestnut, fluffy hair escaped from under the cap, framing his face. Green eyes, the color of forest moss after rain, were narrowed in severity, and above his upper lip darkened a perfectly round mole. He was muttering something to himself, drawing complex patterns in the air with his staff.

"...and then the dragon, defeated by the power of friendship and the silver stars, turned into a fountain! This very one!" Jane finished with pathos, pointing at the triton.

Will solemnly stepped down from the wall, his cloak billowing behind him like bat wings. "And I, Will the Wise, sealed its magic within these stones!" – his voice was clear but trying to be low and mysterious. He held his hand over the velvet, his fingers trembling slightly. Mike knew it wasn't the wizard trembling from tension, but Will from excitement, always afraid of looking foolish. But in that moment, he was utterly convincing.

"And the knight? Where was the knight in this story?" Mike couldn't help it, stepping out from behind a cypress.

They both flinched, then their faces lit up with smiles. "Mike!" Jane shouted. "You're late! We almost defeated the dragon without you!"

"The knight…" Will paused, and a familiar, slightly sly spark flashed in his eyes, one that would later make Mike revisit all their childhood dialogues. "Knight Sir Michael was enchanted by a wicked witch and turned into…into that very gilded chalice! His pure heart was needed for the ritual!"

Mike snorted, but something inside him twitched with pleasure. He was always in their stories. Even as an enchanted artifact. "Well, we'll see about that," he said, coming closer and squatting before the ‘treasures’. "Maybe that chalice was the key to freeing the knight? Maybe he let himself be enchanted on purpose to get closer to the dragon?"

Jane squinted, clearly running a new plot twist through her head. "Oh! Yes! And then, when Will the Wise chants the spell over the stones, the chalice begins to glow!"

Will looked at Mike, and in his gaze was gratitude. Mike always found a way to fit him, the knight, into Will's magical story, without stealing the wizard's glory. It was their unspoken agreement.

"So be it!" proclaimed Will, waving his staff – "But for the ritual we need phoenix blood!" He looked around, and his gaze fell on a bush of wild roses growing by the wall. "Or rather, its tears! Dew!"

The game spun up with new force. Mike, now not just an observer but an enchanted knight seeking his form, ‘guarded’ the garden perimeter from imaginary witch's servants, successfully played by garden gnomes and a particularly bold peacock. Jane, combining the roles of princess and oracle, guided Will. And Will…Will created.

He gathered rose petals, pebbles, a peacock feather, whispering spells over them that were a mix of heard Latin phrases and absolute gibberish. He drew complex symbols in the sand with his staff. And in those moments, his face became completely different – focused, withdrawn, truly believing in the magic he was creating. Sunlight played on his purple cloak, the silver stars flashed, and Mike felt that any moment now, right now, a miracle would happen. Not witchcraft from scary tales, but a kind, bright one – the dew in the chalice would truly sparkle with magical light.

In one such moment, as Will, squatting, was with the greatest care transferring the ‘phoenix tear’ into the ill-fated chalice, his cap slipped over his eyes. He jerked his head desperately, the cloak caught on a bush, and he lost his balance, falling back with a quiet cry.

Mike reacted as a future knight should – with a quick movement catching him under the arm, preventing the fall. Will grabbed his hand, his fingers cold from the dew. They froze. The cap rolled aside. Will, tilting his head back, looked up at Mike, his green eyes huge with surprise and laughter that was about to burst out. A blade of grass stuck to his cheek. Under his fingers, Mike felt the thin fabric of Will's shirt, his fragile wrist, and something warm and inexplicable swelled in his chest. He wanted to brush off that blade of grass.

"Hey, you! Knight and wizard!" Jane called, having already found the ‘dragon's egg,’ played by a perfectly round stone. "The phoenix is crying, and you're just standing there!"

Will laughed, his laughter as clear as the little bell on his cap. He slipped from under Mike's arm, his cloak billowing again. "Sir Michael saved Will the Wise from the schemes of the evil bush! That's a good omen!"

Mike looked away, suddenly feeling heat on his freckled cheeks. "It's…a knight's duty," he mumbled, picking up the cap and placing it back on the fluffy hair. His fingers lingered for a moment, smoothing the stray strands at the temple. Will's hair was surprisingly soft.

Then the game continued. Lunch, which they took to their headquarters – a half-ruined, abandoned watchtower on the very edge of the palace wall. From there, the view stretched over the whole kingdom: the roofs of Hawkins town, the winding ribbon of the river, the dark stripe of forest on the horizon. They ate sweet berry pies, washing them down with diluted cider, and made plans. Will, having removed his cloak and neatly folded it, drew with charcoal on the tower wall – silhouettes of dragons, castles, the three of them holding hands. His fingers were stained with charcoal, but his movements were precise and confident.

"I'll learn real magic," he said once, looking at his drawings – "Like my mom. I'll protect the kingdom alongside the knights."

"The kingdom needs both," Mike replied seriously then, not yet knowing how prophetic his words would be. "Sword and shield are good, but wisdom and…a different vision – are too."

Jane, leaning against a crenellation, looked into the distance. "When I'm queen, the palace will always smell of pies," she said quietly – "And we'll always gather here, in the tower. That will be our law."

The sun began to dip westward, coloring the sky in those very purple and gold hues that were on Will's cloak. A coolness breathed from the stones. It was time to return. Will put the cloak back on, not as a costume now, but as something familiar, his second skin. Fastening the clasp at his throat, he felt under his shirt an amulet – a cold metal disc on a leather cord. Mike had only glimpsed it: a complex spiral pattern, resembling a fern frond or…a tentacle. Will never showed it, only touched it involuntarily when nervous.

"Tomorrow?" Mike asked, shrugging off the imagined weight of armor.

"Tomorrow," Jane nodded. “We need to finish the story about the freed knight. He must repay the wizard with a service now.”

"A knight always repays his debts," Mike said with feigned importance, striking his chest with a fist.

Will smiled, and in the twilight, his green eyes seemed bottomless. "I know."

They descended from the tower, their shadows, elongated and strange, running ahead on the stone steps. Mike walked last, watching Will's back, the fluttering purple edge of his cloak, his cap which now seemed not funny, but somehow sad and proud at the same time. That warm, vague feeling stirred in his chest again, like a premonition of a miracle, and also a slight, aching sadness, as if this day, so simple and perfect, was already becoming a memory even before it ended.

They emerged into the main courtyard where torches were already being lit, and the world put on its strict, official clothes again. From the kitchens came the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread – dinner for the court. Somewhere far off, in the chambers, Jane's governess was calling. Their idyll had come to an end.

"Until tomorrow, Sir Michael," Will said, turning at the threshold of the dark corridor leading to his room. His face was already in shadow, only his eyes still catching the sunset's glow.

"Until tomorrow, Will the Wise," Mike replied, and he suddenly, wildly, wanted that tomorrow to come right now, so they could be just three children in the garden again, where dragons turn into fountains and knights save wizards from evil bushes.

He stood and watched as the purple spot of the cloak dissolved into the darkness of the corridor, until his own squire's voice called him – it was time to prepare for the evening service in the chapel. Childhood, so bright and serene, quietly closed the door behind it, leaving only the bittersweet aftertaste of the past day and a vague, like the pattern on Will's amulet, premonition that nothing lasts forever.

And even then, at ten, with a head full of knightly ideals, Mike somewhere deep in his soul understood: this light, this purple magic, this laughter – was the most precious thing he had. And he, as a true knight, vowed to protect it.

💫

1183.

Two years – that's not an eternity. It's dust settling on knightly armor in the armory. It's hundreds of honed sword strikes against a straw dummy until muscles remember the motion themselves. It's a voice, broken and a bit lower. It's Jane, whose childhood braids turned into heavy, shiny hair styled elegantly, as befits the heir's position. And it's – the constant, sweet and torturous burning in his chest, which Mike now proudly and tremulously called Love.

Its object, as befitted a noble knight, was the princess. His childhood friend had dissolved into the radiance of an ideal. He saw in her now not just Jane, but the future queen, the embodiment of all he served: nobility, intelligence, beauty, hidden strength. He caught her every word, every glance, seeking in them a sign, a hint, permission. His world, recently revolving around the trio, had narrowed to one axis – Jane. And he almost didn't notice how cracks appeared at the edges of this new world.

They sat in the same West Garden, but everything was different. It was late spring, and the air hummed with bees drunk on blooming jasmine. Mike, now almost a squire in training, but already real, chased greaves and breastplate, tried to look dignified. He didn't lounge on the grass, but sat on a stone bench with Jane, back straight.

"...and my father says the embassy from the Northern Lands will be the most important test for me," Jane was saying, deftly wielding a needle. She was embroidering the kingdom's coat of arms on a piece of fine linen – part of her training in the ‘quiet arts’ she hated – "I'll have to negotiate trade routes. Alone. Well, with an advisor, but the word will be mine."

"You'll manage," Mike said sincerely, watching her slender fingers confidently guide the needle. "You always found the right words, even when we were kids and needed to talk the gardener out of trimming our 'magic' bush."

Jane smiled, but in her brown eyes was not childish joy, but a weary pride. "Everything was simpler then. Words were just words, not diplomatic daggers." She sighed and put the embroidery aside. "Sometimes I just want to…run away. Not for half an hour, not to the garden. But far away. Where they don't know me as Princess Jane."

Mike felt a surge of knightly zeal. "I would guard you. Anywhere." The phrase came out more ardent than he planned, and he blushed, hoping it passed for a blush from the sun.

Jane looked at him, and in her gaze flickered something warm, familiar, almost like before. "I know, Mike. You always…"

Her words were cut off by the sound of footsteps on gravel – hurried, nervous. They both turned.

Will stood in the archway leading from the castle's dark corridor to the garden. He froze, seeing them together. He wore a simple linen shirt and pants, no purple cloak. His chestnut hair, now grown longer and even fluffier, was slightly disheveled, as if he'd just jumped out of bed. His face seemed paler than usual, shadows under his eyes. He clutched a thick book in a worn leather binding – a treatise on herbs or ancient runes, Mike couldn't make out.

"Will!" Jane cheered, waving to him. "Come here! You look like you spent the whole night with ghosts in the library."

Will slowly approached. His green eyes slid over Jane's face, then stopped on Mike. The glance was quick, like a pinprick, and in it was a complex mix – expectation, hope, and then, instantly, understanding and a quiet fading. Mike nodded to him friendly, but a second later his attention was again riveted to Jane, to how the sunlight played in her hair.

"I…I didn't want to interrupt," Will said quietly. He didn't sit, but remained standing, shifting from foot to foot, fingers worrying the corner of the book – "Just…the air is better here. The library smells of mold."

"Sit down, silly," Jane said softly, moving on the bench, making room between herself and Mike – "Tell us what you found in your dusty folios."

Will hesitated. His gaze darted to Mike again, who had already turned away, plucking a blade of grass and starting to twist it idly, thinking about how to continue the interrupted conversation with Jane alone. Will's gaze dimmed. He sat down, but not between them, but a little apart, on the stone slab of the fountain, with his back to them. He was close, but separate. The world had split into two parts again: them – on the bench, and him – by the water.

"Nothing interesting," Will muttered dully – "Old recipes for ointments. Legends about…creatures from other worlds." He fell silent, staring at his book, his shoulders tense.

Mike, sensing slight tension, politely asked: "How's your mother? Heard she should return from the northern border soon?"

Will flinched as if touched. "Yes, soon. No letters for a long time." He said it as if it were not just a statement of fact, but an admission of something terrible. His fingers gripped the binding so hard his knuckles whitened. Mike noticed that on the back of his right hand, where the skin was usually clear, a strange reddish stripe was visible, like a fresh burn. But he didn't inquire. Will was always strange, and right now Mike was too absorbed by his own heartbeat because his leg was almost touching Jane's.

An awkward pause fell. The jasmine was intoxicating. A bee buzzed insistently near Will, but he seemed not to notice. He sat hunched, and Mike, suddenly, through the pink fog of his infatuation, caught a memory: just like that, hunched, Will sat in their childhood tower when his beloved dog, a gift from his mother, was taken away. The same quiet, inward-turning sorrow. But back then, Mike immediately sat next to him, put an arm around his shoulders, whispered something until Will buried his tear-wet face in his shirt. Now, that memory evoked only a slight feeling of guilt, which he immediately pushed away. Will had grown up, he had his own thoughts. And Jane was beside him, now turning to Mike and speaking about the embassy again, and the world narrowed again to the sound of her voice.

It was at that moment that Will swayed.

First, it was barely noticeable – he gasped sharply, like someone plunged into icy water. Then his shoulders twitched. The book fell from his weakened fingers and hit the slabs with a dull thud. The sound made Mike and Jane turn.

"Will?" Jane called anxiously.

Will didn't answer. He sat, staring at the fountain water, but his eyes were wide open and unseeing. The sky reflected in them, but it seemed he was looking somewhere inside himself, into some abyss. A spasm ran across his face, over his pale skin. He raised his hands – those hands with the red mark – and stared at them as if seeing them for the first time. And then Mike noticed that from his fingers, from his nails, a faint, barely visible vapor was rising. Not steam from heat, but a strange, frosty haze.

"I'm…cold," Will whispered. His voice was thin, frightened, the voice of that boy in the purple cloak – "So cold..."

Jane jumped up. "Will! What's wrong with you?" She rushed to him, but Mike was faster. The knightly instinct, muffled by infatuation, awoke instantly. In two leaps he was beside him, kneeling before Will, grabbing his shoulders.

"Will! Look at me!"

The skin under his palms was icy, unnaturally cold, like touching dead marble in a dungeon. Will slowly turned his unseeing gaze on him. His pupils were dilated, panic swimming in the green irises.

"It…woke up..." he exhaled, and his breath came out in puffs of white frost in the warm spring air. The frost settled on his eyelashes, on the fluffy hair at his temples.

And then it began.

First – sound. Quiet, at the edge of hearing, like the rustle of giant leaves, the creak of old trees, a whisper from under the earth. It came from Will himself, or rather, from the space around him. The air wavered, like over heated stones.

Then – light. From under the collar of his simple linen shirt, where the amulet should hang, a dull, pulsating blue glow broke through. It was cold, sickly, unearthly. It cast eerie shadows on Will's pale face.

"Mike..." Will groaned, and in his voice was a plea. His fingers dug into Mike's forearms, and from that touch a wave of freezing cold ran up Mike's arms, making his muscles cramp.

Jane froze two steps away, her face twisted in horror. "What is that? What's wrong with him?"

But Mike couldn't answer. He saw how on the backs of Will's hands, where the red marks were, the skin began to glow from within with the same blue light. The light burned through the shirt's fabric, showing through in intricate, winding patterns – exactly like the ones on that amulet Mike had only glimpsed. The patterns spread like frost flowers on glass, but they were alive, pulsating.

And then from behind Will, from the empty space by the fountain, it erupted.

Not fully. Not materially. They were shadows, clots of gloom taking shape. Long, flexible, serpentine tentacles of blue, shimmering like foxfire, light. They writhed in the air, silent and graceful, not touching the ground. There were three, five, impossible to count – they appeared and dissolved like smoke. From them emanated that same freezing cold, that whisper of leaves and creak. And terror. Primordial, animal terror that froze the blood in one's veins.

Mike recoiled instinctively, but his hands still held Will. He was a knight. He must protect. But from what? From his best friend? From this nightmare tearing out of him?

"Back away, Mike!" Jane shouted, but her voice seemed to come from underwater.

The tentacles of light and shadow wavered in the air, as if feeling the space. One of them slowly, almost tenderly, reached for the fallen book. Upon touching it, the book became covered in frost, its pages blackened and crumbled to dust in a second. Another tentacle headed toward the jasmine bush. Where its ethereal tip touched the petals, the bright flower instantly blackened, shriveled, and died.

Will screamed. A quiet, torn scream, full of unbearable pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears streamed from under his lids, freezing on his cheeks into icicles. "I can't…can't stop it…it's here…always been here..."

"Will, listen to me!" Mike shook him, forcing him to focus. His own voice trembled, but he made it sound firm. A knight. He must be a support. "Breathe, just breathe. It's a part of you, you must control it!"

"I'm scared..." Will groaned, and his body shook in a new spasm. The tentacles jerked, one of them, as if in panic, lunged toward Jane.

It all happened in a fraction of a second. Mike, without releasing Will, lunged forward, shielding Jane with himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the freezing touch, death, turning to frost...

But the touch didn't come.

He opened his eyes. The blue tentacle froze a centimeter from his chest, its tip trembling. Such cold emanated from it that it hurt to breathe. And then, slowly, it began to retreat. All the tentacles, as if obeying an invisible command, began to retract back toward Will. The light from under his shirt dimmed, the pulsations slowed. The whisper faded.

Will, covered in tears and frost, looked at Mike. In his green eyes, besides pain and fear, was bottomless gratitude and something else…something warm and human, breaking through the icy nightmare.

"You…you didn't retreat..." he whispered.

Then his eyes rolled back, his body went limp. The magic, or curse, or whatever it was, receded as suddenly as it had appeared. The blue light went out. The tentacles dissolved into the air as if they had never been. Only the freezing cold enveloping Will remained, and the dark, burned patterns on his hands, which now looked like fresh, terrible scars.

Silence hung in the garden, broken only by Mike's heavy breathing and Jane's choked sobs. The scent of jasmine mixed with ozone and the smell of burnt flesh.

Mike, still holding Will's unconscious body, looked up. He met Jane's gaze. In her brown eyes, full of tears, he saw not only fear for her friend, but something new – horror. Not at what had happened, but at him. At Will. In her gaze flashed the same cold that had just emanated from the tentacles.

And in that moment, Mike, whose heart a second ago had been full of knightly fervor and love for the princess, felt something break inside his soul. He hugged Will tighter, pressing his cold head to his shoulder, protecting him now not from invisible monsters, but from this world, from that gaze, from everything that would inevitably follow.

💫

1186.

Three years – that's a series of small measurements that suddenly add up to an abyss.

Fifteen – the age when bones stretch, voices break not only for boys, but for fate itself. Hawkins Castle over these years ceased to be just home for Mike. It became an arena, a proving ground, a labyrinth with two main beacons: Jane and…a sense of duty that now had acquired the bitter aftertaste of secret and constant anxiety.

He had grown. His black curls now touched the collar of the dark blue doublet worn by senior squires. On his freckled face, one noticeable feature was added – a thin, almost elegant scar stretching from the outer edge of his left eyebrow to the temple. A gift from a training duel with an arrogant knight from another province. The scar lent his open, still youthful face a slight severity he inwardly prided himself on. Now he looked like a warrior. And he was.

But there were two wars. One – external, on the northern border, where the royal army had been fighting with varying success for several years. The other – internal, quiet and far more terrible, raging within the castle walls. In Will.

Mike saw it in fragments. In rare, increasingly strained meetings of the three. In how Will now almost never appeared without long, thick gloves, even in summer heat. In his eyes – green, but now as if veiled with a light haze of constant fatigue and…fear. Fear of himself.

Their childhood tower was abandoned. They now met in the old greenhouse, where gardeners rarely went. There, among the smell of damp earth, clay pots, and withering plants, Will tried to ‘negotiate’ with what lived inside him. Mike sometimes peeked, feeling a pang of shame, but unable to look away.

He saw Will, removing his gloves, squat before a wilted flower. His hands, once thin and graceful, were now marked with those same scars – white, like lightning, as if cold lightning had once burst under the skin. They spread from his wrists to his fingers, ugly and yet mesmerizing. Will concentrated, his face distorted with effort, and on his palms flared a weak, sickly glow – not quite blue, not quite gray. And then the wilted stem might stir. A leaf might straighten, gaining for a second a shadow of its former succulence. But more often it went the other way: the plant became covered in frost and crumbled to dust, and Will recoiled with a muffled groan, clutching his head as if trying to drive out someone's voice.

"He asks his mother for advice," Jane whispered to him once. They stood in a secret niche behind a tapestry in the library, so close he could feel the warmth of her body. Their secret relationship – stolen touches of hands, quick kisses in semi-darkness, vows whispered under the starry sky from the north tower – were his light, his personal magic. "In every letter he describes his…attacks. She sends him herbs, spells to calm the mind. But it doesn't help. He says the connection with that creature only grows stronger."

Mike was silent, holding her. He loved her. Loved her mind, her hidden strength, her courage – for she, risking everything, also studied magic. Not dark, like Will's, but something lighter, based on old, nearly forgotten runes and herb lore. Joyce, Will's mother, the court mage, had once helped her. Now Jane studied on her own, from hidden books. Mike was proud of her and afraid for her. This duality tore at him. Knightly duty said “magic – risk, a threat to the kingdom's stability.” His heart whispered “she – is your princess, and everything she does is right.”

And Will became a ghost, a painful reminder of that day in the garden. Mike still felt that icy cold of his skin, saw those tentacles of light and darkness. He still considered him a friend, but their friendship was now like a fragile bridge over an abyss, which they were afraid to cross toward each other. Mike was too busy with his secret love and knightly training. Will – with his struggle against an inner demon.

And so they lived. Until one autumn day, a messenger came galloping.

The day was cold and windy. Leaves, crimson and gold, swirled in the inner courtyard, driven by gusts from the north. Mike was practicing sword techniques on the training ground, his breath coming out in clouds of steam. Strike, block, sweep. Mechanical movements calming the mind. He thought of Jane, how this morning, passing by, she had secretly slipped him a folded scrap of parchment. He hadn't read it yet.

Suddenly the gates slammed open. A rider on a lathered horse flew in – not a royal messenger in livery, but some ragged man in mud-stiffened, tattered clothes, with a face weathered to a bluish hue. He practically fell from the saddle, shouting in a hoarse, broken voice: "News from the border! For the captain of the guard! Urgent!"

Something heavy and cold dropped into Mike's stomach. He lowered the training sword, watching as captains and advisors surrounded the messenger, led him to the main hall. A whisper ran through the castle, anxious as the rustle of those very leaves. Half an hour later, fragments of phrases already crawled through the corridors like poisonous smoke: ‘ambush,’ ‘snowstorm,’ ‘no chance,’ ‘the entire squad.’

Mike stood leaning against the cold stone wall, feeling his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. He searched for Jane with his eyes, but she was nowhere. Then he remembered Will.

His legs carried him to the old greenhouse on their own. Instinct? Premonition? He didn't know.

He came upon a scene that clenched everything inside him.

Will sat on the ground, leaning against a pot with a huge fern. He wore no gloves. His hands with the white lightning-scars lay on his knees, palms up, and from them, weakly pulsating, seeped that same bluish glow. But now it wasn't aggressive, it was…mournful. Painful. Around Will, on the ground, on the petals of wilted flowers, on the glass of the roof, frost had formed. Not patterned, beautiful, but solid, blind, like a shroud of death. Will himself wasn't crying. He stared straight ahead, but his eyes were empty, utterly empty. In them was no fear, no panic – only all-consuming, bottomless despair, colder than the northernmost ice.

Kneeling beside him was Jane. She held a crumpled parchment leaf in her hands – that very report, a copy of which had likely already been delivered to her as the heir. Her face was pale but composed. Tears stood in her eyes, but didn't fall. She looked at Will, her lips moving soundlessly. She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but stopped a centimeter away, as if afraid of being burned or disturbing something.

"Will..." her voice trembled – "Will, listen to me. This…this report. Your mother's squad…and Sir Jim…they..."

"I know," Will interrupted. His voice was quiet, monotone, devoid of any intonation. It sounded as if coming from a deep well. "I felt it a few minutes ago. A rupture. First hers…then his. Like two strings that snapped..."

He slowly raised his head and looked at his glowing hands. "It…rejoiced. The monster in me felt the death, it feeds on it." He said it with such chilling simplicity that Mike's blood froze in his veins.

Jane swallowed, her fingers squeezing the parchment. "Will, that's not true. You're not..."

"I know what I am!" Will's voice suddenly broke, turning into a hoarse, ragged cry. The glow on his hands flared brighter, the frost on the glass crackled, went web-like with cracks. "I'm a vessel! A vessel for that creature! She said she'd help me control it! She promised! And now she's gone! There's no one!"

He began to sob, but these were not a child's tears. They were dry, wrenching sobs, turning the soul inside out. Nothing flowed from his eyes, only the blue glow in them became brighter, more painful. Magic, uncontrolled, responded to his pain, and the temperature in the greenhouse plummeted. Mike saw Jane's breath turn into a thick cloud of steam.

Jane took a step back – not from fear of Will, no. From fear of the situation she couldn't control. From the responsibility that now fell on her with its full weight. And in that retreat, in that instant, barely perceptible movement, Mike saw everything. Saw the princess, the heir, thinking of the kingdom, of stability, of how this flare of desperate magic might look to outsiders. And somewhere deep, in the darkest corner of her gaze, flashed that same thing from three years ago in the garden: the cold of detachment.

And Mike couldn't bear it.

He stepped over the greenhouse threshold, the creak of the floorboard under his boot deafeningly loud in the icy silence. Jane turned, and in her eyes he saw relief – here he was, the strong knight, he would handle it. But Mike walked past her, went straight to Will, to this knot of pain, magic, and despair, and without thinking of the freezing cold emanating from him, knelt beside him.

"Will," he said quietly but firmly.

Will didn't react, he stared into nothingness, his body shuddering with sobs, the blue veins of light on his arms pulsing in time with his desperate heartbeat.

Mike reached out to his face. Carefully, almost tenderly, he touched his cheek with his fingers: the skin was icy, but alive, real.

"Will, look at me."

Green eyes, blurred with pain and blue glow, slowly focused on him. There was so much loss in them that Mike wanted to scream.

"She didn't promise it would be easy," Mike said, and his own voice trembled. He spoke of Joyce. "She promised you were stronger than this. That we are stronger. Remember? Will the Wise and Sir Michael defeated dragons."

He was talking nonsense. Childish words in the face of an adult, monstrous tragedy. But he didn't know what else to say. He only knew he couldn't let Will fall into that abyss. Not now. Not like this.

Will looked at him, and something in his eyes wavered. The glow on his hands began to flicker, weaken. The frost on the glass stopped spreading.

"She…left," Will whispered, and in his voice appeared at least a pitiful shadow of life. "And Jim…he was like a father..."

"I know," Mike said quietly, his fingers still touching Will's cold cheek. "And I'm…I'm so sorry."

He didn't let him go, he just sat there on the cold ground in that frosty greenhouse, holding contact – skin to skin, gaze to gaze. It wasn't a knightly gesture, not duty. It was something much simpler and much more complex. It was human presence. A promise that he wasn't alone.

Mike felt Jane's gaze on him – a complex gaze. In it was gratitude, and a slight jealous hurt, and cold calculation. And in that moment, Mike, looking into his friend's empty eyes, understood a terrible thing: his love for Jane and his devotion to Will could no longer exist in the same dimension. They were diverging like cracks on glass, and he stood right on the fracture.

The blue glow finally went out. Will's hands with the ugly white scars just lay on his knees, lifeless. The frost began to melt, dripping from the leaves in heavy, cold drops. Will closed his eyes, and finally, real, hot human tears flowed down his cheeks. He leaned forward, and his forehead rested against Mike's shoulder. Quietly, soundlessly, he cried, his fingers clutching the sleeve of Mike's doublet like a drowning man clutching at a straw.

Mike held him, ignoring the cold coming from his body. He looked over his trembling shoulder at Jane. She stood a few steps away, beautiful, composed, the future queen with tragic news in her hands. And between them, in the air smelling now not only of earth but of ozone and grief, hung an unspoken understanding: everything had changed. Forever.

💫

1189.

Three months on the northern border – that's not time. It's another life, cast in eternal cold, in the rusty smell of blood and damp wool of cloaks, in screams that get stuck in the throat from the frosty air. Mike returned to Hawkins late in the evening when autumn rain lashed the walls in slanting, icy streams. He returned not as the youth who had left with eyes burning with knightly ambitions. He returned as a paladin.

It happened in the thick of a night battle, when a squad sent on reconnaissance fell into an ambush in the Black Gorge. Not men – something else, covered in fur and ice, with eyes like coals. They leaped out of the fog, silent, and steel slid off their hides as if off rock. Mike, covering the retreat of the wounded, found himself cut off. His sword broke against a bowed, shaggy back. He fought back with a shard, feeling icy claws tear his mail, how hot, salty blood flooded his face. He fell to his knees in mud mixed with snow, and in a last desperate surge prayed – not to gods, not to the king, but to the very idea of Light, to that abstract good he had sworn to serve.

And he heard an answer.

Not sound. Golden silence flooding his consciousness, washing away pain and fear. And a voice – pure as mountain crystal, ringing like a sword striking a shield, and at the same time incredibly ancient and impersonal. In it was no pity, no anger – only absolute, relentless will.

"Rise, chosen one. You are the shield. You are the sword. You are the will of Light in the darkness."

Something flared within him, but not warmth – a blinding, white cold, purer than any flame. Power rushed into his veins, not as rage, but as calm, all-crushing certainty. He rose. In his hand, instead of a shard, shone a blade of condensed light – weightless and stronger than steel. The scar on his face, the one from the training sword, flared with a golden thread. When he made the first swing with that glowing sword, the creature before him didn't just fall – it dissolved in the radiance with a quiet hiss, like ice on a hot stove.

After the battle, he spent a week feverish in a tent, hearing that same voice on the edge of consciousness. It explained, instructed, dictated. Mike was not just blessed, he was chosen. And every beat of his new heart from now on beat in time with this higher purpose: to purify, protect, punish the unclean. His former, youthful love for Jane, his friendship with Will – all of it suddenly seemed petty, earthly feelings in the shadow of a colossal duty.

The return was quiet, almost secret. He went to his quarters in the knights' wing, threw off his cloak reeking of smoke and blood. In the reflection of a tarnished mirror, he saw his double: the same black curls, now matted and long, the same freckles on pale, scratched skin. But his eyes…brown eyes now looked different. In them was the depth and detachment of a man who had seen the beyond. And the scar – a thin golden thread, glowing from within with a barely perceptible radiance when he concentrated. It was a seal. And a reminder.

The next morning, with two bundles in hand, he set off to find his friends. Or rather, what remained of them. The castle lived its life, but a new, tense silence hung in the air. Whispers about defeats on the border, about growing discontent among the people, about strange, chilling rumors coming from the south – about crop blight, about animals going mad.

He found Jane in her personal chambers, at a table laden with scrolls and retorts. She glanced at him, and joy flashed in her eyes, but immediately died, replaced by concern and…estrangement? She had grown, become even more beautiful, but in her posture, in her gestures, one read the weight of the crown already pressing on her temples.

"Mike. You've returned whole," she said, not rising. Her voice was even, businesslike.

"Whole and…changed," he replied, placing the first bundle before her – an elegant dark wood box with northern carvings. Inside lay a moon-silver necklace with a stone the color of her eyes. An expensive, beautiful, impersonal gift from a court cavalier. He saw her fingers slide over the cold metal without much interest.

"Thank you. That's…very kind." She set the box aside. "We need to talk, but later. Affairs of state..."

He nodded, understanding that their secret kisses in library niches now seemed a stupid childish game. His new purpose made such games inappropriate. Her duty – too.

"Will?" he asked, already turning to leave.

Jane frowned. "In his tower. He's…become even quieter. Be careful, Mike. Something is seething in him."

Mike felt the golden thread of the scar on his face ache faintly – a reaction to the proximity of strong, disordered magic. The voice in his head whispered a warning. He suppressed it.

Will's tower – that same, childhood, abandoned one – was now his refuge. Mike climbed the spiral staircase, and with each step the sense of unease grew. Not fear. A paladin shouldn't fear. But…foreboding. The air grew colder, smelling of old paper, dry herbs, and something else: ozone, faint but acrid.

The door was ajar. Mike entered.

Will stood by a narrow arrow-slit window, back to him, examining something in his palms. He wore a simple gray cloak, but Mike immediately noticed his hands were again without gloves. The scars seemed even more pronounced, as if grown deeper into the flesh. Creative chaos reigned in the room: canvases stood everywhere, covered with sheets of paper, jars of pigments, brushes. On the walls hung finished works – incredibly detailed, alive: portraits of Jane, studies of the garden, and strange, disturbing abstractions: swirls of blue and black, in which one could discern the outlines of tentacles, eyes, and endless labyrinths.

"Will," Mike called softly.

Will flinched, but didn't turn immediately. He tucked something into the folds of his cloak – Mike caught a glimpse of a familiar blue glow. Then he turned.

Their eyes met.

Mike froze. Something really had changed. Not only in Will – he had become even more fragile, almost transparent, shadows under his eyes – deep, purple. It changed in his gaze: green eyes, always so clear to Mike, now looked differently. In them was an unchildlike weariness, pain, and some new, hidden depth. And when they fell on Mike, a whole storm of feelings flared in them, which he couldn't read to the end: relief, longing, admiration, pain, and something else, warm and aching, which Mike didn't expect and didn't understand. That look lasted only a second, then Will lowered his eyes, and his familiar mask of timid restraint returned to its place.

"Michael. You…returned," Will's voice was hoarse from disuse, but in it was genuine joy. He took a step forward, then stopped, as if remembering he shouldn't.

"Returned," Mike confirmed, and he suddenly desperately wanted to tell everything: about the gorge, the voice, the sword of light. But the words stuck in his throat. How to tell such a thing to one whose magic was cold, blue, born of tentacles of darkness? The paladin's voice in his head quietly sounded a warning. He extended the second bundle – small, wrapped in coarse canvas. "This is for you from the Far East. They call it 'ink stone.' They say it helps with concentration."

Will took the bundle, his scar-covered fingers touching Mike's. The touch was icy, but Mike didn't pull his hand away. He felt under Will's skin the stirring of an alien, dark energy, and his own, golden power responded to it with a slight, painful resonance. Will, it seemed, also felt it – he flinched slightly and quickly unwrapped the bundle. Inside lay a smooth, polished stone with intricate silver veins, resembling either writings or those very tentacles.

"Thank you," Will whispered, squeezing the stone in his palm. "It's beautiful." He raised his eyes, and again something elusive flickered in them. "I…also have something for you. Or rather, Jane asked. But I…I put a lot into it."

He went to an easel covered with cloth, and with solemn, almost timid slowness, pulled off the cover.

Mike gasped.

It was a painting, huge, done in oils. It depicted a knight in shining but realistically dented armor, with a face discernible under the raised visor – it was his face, his freckles, his scar. The knight stood on the edge of a cliff, behind him – a burning city, and before him – a dragon. But not a fairytale one, but a dreadful one, woven from shadows, ice, and blue, shimmering light. Its eyes burned with a familiar, freezing cold. The monster from Will's nightmares. And the knight was raising his sword for a strike, not with fear, but with fierce, righteous resolve. The composition was perfect, every stroke – alive. It was a masterpiece.

"Jane, she asked to depict the knight's fearlessness…his devotion," Will said quietly, standing aside and watching Mike's reaction. His voice sounded strangely tense. "His readiness to fight any monster, even if it seems invincible, even if the darkness inside…seems stronger than the light."

He paused, his gaze glued to the painting, but Mike felt he was actually speaking of something else, something personal.

"She said that's what she…what she admires most in you," Will continued, and his voice trembled on the last words – "That you are the heart that doesn't retreat, even when everything is against it…that's the rarest and most beautiful thing there can be."

Mike looked at the painting, and a wave of strange excitement washed over him. Jane! She saw him as this hero, she asked to capture his valor. His devoted heart. He was so blinded by this thought, so flattered, that he completely missed the trembling in Will's voice, the pain in his eyes with which he looked not at the dragon, but at the figure of the knight.

"This…is incredible, Will," Mike breathed, turning to his friend – "Thank you. And thank Jane. I…I didn't think she felt so..."

"She values you," Will said quickly, almost abruptly, turning away and beginning to idly sort through brushes on the table. "Everyone does. You are our…our shining knight."

An awkward pause fell. Mike, wanting to fill it, to hide his own embarrassment and the strange warmth spreading in his chest from Jane's recognition, began to tell – about the campaign, the gorge, omitting details of his transformation, about northern icy winds, strange stars, comrades fallen in skirmishes. He spoke, and in his voice sounded a new note – confidence, heaviness, the detached wisdom of a warrior who had seen death. He told how he took command after the captain's death, how he led men through a snow-covered pass.

And as he spoke, he didn't notice how Will listened to him: not as one listens to adventure stories, but as one listens to a sacred hymn. His green eyes didn't leave Mike's face, absorbing every word, every gesture, every gleam of light on his black curls. In his gaze was such naked, defenseless devotion, such hungry longing, that had Mike been a little less blinded by his new status and thoughts of Jane, he would have surely noticed. But he didn't. He saw only an attentive friend.

And Will saw more. He saw how Mike had changed. How a new, quiet power had appeared in him, how his movements became even more refined, and in his eyes appeared a shadow of something inhuman. He felt the energy emanating from him – pure, golden, scorching. And this energy, which should have repelled, frightened him, the bearer of a different, dark force, he... craved. Like a moth craved flame. He listened to stories of feats and thought not of the dragon in the painting, but of the dragon inside himself. And would this new, shining Mike have the resolve to fight it, if he knew the whole truth? Or would he see in him only a monster to be cleansed with his glowing sword?

When Mike finished, silence hung in the tower again. Twilight light from the window fell on the painting, and it seemed the dragon in it stirred.

"You've become stronger," Will finally whispered, still not looking at him. "Not just in body. Your soul…it rings now, like a taut string, differently."

Mike nodded, accepting it as a compliment. "Yes. Much had to be rethought. The world…it's bigger and scarier than I thought. And duty…it's clearer than ever now."

"Duty," Will repeated, and in his voice sounded silent pain. He finally looked at Mike, and in his eyes stood a mute question he would never dare utter aloud. And where in this duty is there a place for me? For one who has become part of this 'scary' world?

But he said nothing, only pointed at the painting. "Take it. Let it remind you of what you protect."

Mike took the painting; it was heavier than it seemed. He felt Will's gaze on him, full of the unspoken. And when he left the tower, carrying with him the image of himself – heroic, clear, fighting obvious evil – he couldn't understand why his heart felt so bittersweet and anxious. He chalked it up to road weariness and the strength of new impressions. And he didn't see at all how in the tower window, in the blue twilight, stood a lone figure in a gray cloak, watching him leave with a gaze full of hopeless love and chilling fear of the day when the knight in the painting would turn his face to him and raise his sword not against a painted dragon.

💫

1191.

Knighting is not an event; it's a whole ritual – measured, weighty, calibrated by centuries, like a pattern on the royal mantle. Sunlight cutting through the high stained-glass windows of the throne hall lay on the stone slabs in golden squares where dust danced. The air was thick with the smell of wax, incense, and cold metal.

Mike knelt on the lowest step of the throne. His knees burned from long immobility, his back straight as the blade lying before him on a velvet cushion. He didn't see Jane's face – only slender fingers in white gloves holding the heavy ceremonial sword, and the hem of her dress, embroidered with silver threads depicting the kingdom's tree.

Jane's voice sounded clear, unwavering, echoing through the vaults where courtiers, knights, advisors stood frozen in respectful silence.

"...and do you swear, Michael Wheeler, to serve the Crown faithfully, protect the weak, uphold the law and the honor of knighthood until your last breath?"

"I swear," Mike answered with a firm, matured-over-the-years voice, but inside there was no former delight. There was empty, pure space filled only with the consciousness of duty. His own sword, now real, with a hilt wrapped in black leather and a guard shaped like wings, lay at his belt. The golden thread of the scar on his face was silent, only faintly warming – a sign that the paladin's blessing was still with him, even in this secular ceremony.

The blade touched first one shoulder, then the other. A cold, ceremonial touch. "In the name of the King, the Crown, and all Light's forces, arise, Sir Michael Wheeler, Knight of Hawkins."

He rose. His black curls, now neatly trimmed but still unruly, cast a shadow on his freckled face with the scar. He met Jane's gaze. She sat on the throne one level below the empty throne of her ailing father-king. Her brown eyes were clear, intelligent, but held not a drop of that former tenderness hidden in library niches. There was respect, trust. And sadness. Deep, adult sadness, familiar from his own reflection. Their childhood love had died not with a scandal, but quietly, dissolved in the burden of duties, in understanding that they – were tools in the kingdom's mechanism, not its masters. Feelings remained – warm, grateful, but not consuming.

"Congratulations, Sir Michael," she said quietly, and in her voice sounded something like old friendship.

"Thank you, Your Highness," he replied, bowing. Protocol had no place for the name Jane.

A ball in honor of the knighting and…of another, unspoken event, was inevitable. In the evening, the great hall transformed: torches replaced by thousands of candles in crystal chandeliers and candelabras; parquet, polished to a mirror shine, reflected flickers of flame and shimmering silk. The air trembled with music – lively, passionate, complex, unlike anything within the castle's strict walls before. It was a ball of hope, a ball of distraction. While the king weakened, clouds gathered on the borders, the court had to demonstrate unshakable brilliance. And another reason hovered in the air, whispered behind fans: Princess Jane was to be officially betrothed to the son of a powerful southern duke, to strengthen the alliance. Her fate was decided, and this ball was also her farewell to maiden freedom.

Mike stood by a column in his new, formal doublet the color of dark night with silver embroidery depicting the same wings as on his sword's guard. He held a goblet of wine, not getting drunk from it – the paladin's blessing cleansed the blood faster than poison or intoxication could take effect. He observed.

And he saw Will.

He entered not as a shadow, not as a ghost of the past. He entered as an event.

He was dressed not in court silks, but in something between a doublet and a cloak – deep, velvety blue, the color of night sky before a storm. The embroidery on it was not gold or silver, but shimmered with its own, muted blue-green light, forming those same swirling, hypnotic patterns that were on his scars. His hair, always so fluffy, was swept back from his face, revealing a high forehead and sharp cheekbones. But most striking were his eyes. Green, like forest depths, they no longer darted, seeking escape on the floor; they looked straight ahead, calmly, with a slight, almost mocking weariness, as if seeing through all this tinsel. In them was confidence. Accepted, hard-won strength.

Will no longer hid his hands: long, graceful fingers with white scars were bare. And when he took a goblet, around his fingers for a second a faint, blue halo appeared, and the wine in the goblet sparkled slightly, as if star dust had been dissolved in it. This was not a challenge, not boasting. It was natural, like breathing. He was magic.

And the ladies saw it. First with caution, then with curiosity, then – with open interest. He was an enigma. They approached him, flirtingly urging him to tell of northern stars or the secrets of ancient scrolls. Will smiled – a smile that didn't reach his eyes, but was impeccably polite. He didn't refuse them dances.

Mike watched as Will led a count's daughter in a dance, how his hand rested on her waist, how they glided over the parquet. The music was fast, lively. Will moved with unexpected ease, his blue cloak flowing, the shimmering embroidery leaving faint, ghostly traces in the air. He said something to the lady, she laughed heartily, throwing her head back. And something twinged in Mike. Not knightly jealousy of attention to another. Something else, dark, hot, and utterly irrational.

He set his goblet down and stepped onto the floor himself. He was a newly-made knight, hero, paladin, so he had plenty of partners. He danced with the same ease as he fought, his body, hardened in campaigns, perfectly obeying the rhythm. He smiled at the ladies, uttered polite compliments, but his gaze, like a compass needle, constantly returned to the blue spot on the other end of the hall.

He saw Will finish a dance, bow to his partner, and, catching another girl's eye, step toward her. And again that wave – hot, sour, rising to his throat. Mike turned away, squeezing his partner's hand a bit tighter than he should, making her squeak in surprise.

The music changed. A moment of slower, languid dance arrived. Couples drew closer together. Candles burned, casting long, dancing shadows. Mike, leading another lady, found himself in the center of the hall. And at the same moment, Will, following the dance's movement, ended up right opposite him, partnered with a dark-haired beauty from the southern embassy.

The distance between them shrank to a few meters. Their eyes met.

The world narrowed.

The noise of music, laughter, rustle of dresses – all receded, turned into a muffled hum. Mike saw only green eyes looking straight at him through the crowd. In them was none of the former timidity, childish longing. There was complex, layered depth: weary wisdom, knowledge of some terrible secret, quiet sorrow, and... challenge. A quiet, barely perceptible challenge. Look. This is who I am. Understand?

And Will smiled. Not that social, empty smile he gave the girls. The corners of his lips trembled in something more real, more sorrowful, and warmer. He gave a slight nod, as if greeting the knight on his field – the field not of battle, but of this ridiculous, brilliant ball.

Then his partner said something, and he looked away to answer her. And on his face lay that impenetrable mask again.

But for Mike, that moment was enough.

In his chest, next to the cold, golden light of paladin power, something else flared. Something restless, dark, sticky like tar. This was not noble indignation, not jealousy for the princess. It was a feeling of possessiveness, wild and primal. He shouldn't look at them like that. Shouldn't smile at them so easily.

Mike abruptly ended the dance, almost throwing his lady's hand, muttering apologies. He retreated to a column, feeling his heart beating with unusual force. The golden scar on his face now burned not with warmth, but with a slight, anxious heat. The paladin's voice in his head, usually so clear, sounded vaguely, as if hindered.

He watched as Will, finishing a dance, moved to the drinks table, and another girl, bright as a poppy, immediately approached him. Will smiled again, took her hand for the next dance.

And Mike realized he couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear the sight of that confidence, that accepted beauty, that strange, magnetic force attracting everyone to Will except the one to whom, as Mike suddenly realized, it had always been directed.

He turned sharply and left the hall for the adjoining gallery, where it was cool, dark, and quiet. He stood, forehead leaning against the cold stone wall, trying to drive away this monstrous, new feeling that had no name but burned inside brighter than any blessing of Light.

The air in the greenhouse was humid and quiet, like in the lungs of a sleeping dragon. The roar of the ball reached here muffled, as if from under a thickness of water. Here, a different world reigned. The air silvered from moonlight breaking through the fogged glass roof, and was filled with the smell of damp earth, clay, and greenery. And also – a light, constant smell of ozone, as after a distant thunderstorm.

Mike didn't find him here immediately. Will stood at the far end, by a large tub with a tropical fern whose leaves gleamed with a bluish metallic sheen in the moonlight. He was turned with his back, his blue cloak seeming part of the night in the semi-darkness. He wasn't moving, just looking at his hands spread before him on the clay rim of the tub. On his palms, on the pale skin marked with white scars, danced tiny, cold sparks of blue light. They jumped from finger to finger, forming miniature, complex patterns – spirals, rings, those very swirls that adorned his clothing.

Mike froze on the threshold, feeling that unpleasant, hot feeling in his chest stir again, mixing with something else – cold, detached admiration. The paladin in him registered his magic, assessed its power, threat potential. The human in him saw beauty.

"Quiet as a crypt," Will said, not turning. His voice in the silence sounded unexpectedly loud and calm. "After all that noise…it's pleasant."

Mike took a step forward, his boots thudding dully on the stone tiles. "You always hated noise and crowds."

"Hated it when I was weaker than it," Will corrected. He clenched his palms into fists, and the blue sparks went out as if never there. He turned. His face in the moonlight was like carved stone – sharp cheekbones, shadow from long lashes, green eyes glowing with their own, muted light. "Now I just let it flow past. Like water."

They looked at each other across several meters of cool, fragrant space. Mike felt his scar pulse faintly, not hostilely, but like a watchdog scenting another strong beast.

"Congratulations on your knighting," Will continued. He stepped away from the tub and took a few leisurely steps toward the fountain in the center. The water in it was still, black. "Jane looked…majestic. As befits."

"Yes," Mike threw out shortly, leaning against a wooden stand with tools. He didn't want to talk about Jane. Not now. "Her betrothal ceremony will be soon."

Will nodded, dipping his fingertips into the black water. Where he touched the surface, not ripples spread, but intricate frost patterns that melted after a second. "The southern duke…I've seen his portrait. Quite…presentable. His lands are rich in iron and wheat, a sensible alliance."

In his voice was not a drop of bitterness or sarcasm. Only cold, analytical calculation. And that angered Mike more than if Will had shown any emotion.

"And that doesn't bother you?" Mike couldn't help it, his voice sounding much sharper – "That she's being handed over like a trade contract?"

Will raised his eyes; weary understanding flashed in them. "Does it bother me that our best friend, the heir to the throne of a kingdom cracking at the seams, does what she must? No, Michael. That's called reality. We all play our roles: she – the princess, you – the knight-paladin, I..." – he slightly spread his hands, and between his palms for a moment stretched the thinnest thread of blue light, like a spiderweb – "...the sorcerer. Though not the most orthodox."

"And what is your role?" Mike asked, involuntarily mesmerized by that disappearing thread. "There, at the ball? The role of an entertainer for the ladies?"

Will laughed – the sound unexpectedly light and sincere. "Oh, that's part of it too. The court must see I'm not a monster, that my power is under control. That I can be…a harmless decoration. That calms them. And a calm court is one brick in the wall you, by the way, will soon ride off to defend."

Mike frowned. "You know about the campaign?"

"The whole castle knows: a squad of paladins and the best knights to suppress the undead in the Old Ruins. An honorable mission. Dangerous." Will wiped his hand on his cloak, his tone changed, became more businesslike. "You'll need amulets against corruption – I can prepare them. And salves for wounds that don't fester from necrotic taint. I have…special ingredients."

"Thank you," Mike muttered. He felt awkward again. This practical care wasn't what he expected. He wanted…he didn't know what he wanted. To provoke some reaction. To see in those eyes at least a spark of the old Will who trembled with fear. But he wasn't there. There was a confident, detached sorcerer. "You…handle your powers well now."

"Handle them," Will agreed. He stepped away from the fountain and stopped before a huge, sleeping cactus. Touched its thorn – it instantly became covered in frost and broke off with a quiet snap. He picked it up, examining it. "It's not control in the sense you think. I don't drive it into a cage. I…negotiate, accept that it's part of me. That the voices in my head are not madness, but echoes of another world. That gives me strength and peace. A terrible peace."

He unclenched his fingers, and the frosted thorn crumbled into ashy dust. "And what about your future, Michael? After the campaign? Knight-paladins usually don't start families. Their family is duty, their home is the road."

Mike shrugged. "I'll be where the Crown orders. Where the Light is needed. That's all."

"That's all," Will repeated thoughtfully. He looked at Mike again, and this time his gaze was piercing, almost physically palpable. "You know, sometimes I think you and I are very alike. Both bound by forces that chose us, not we them. Both doomed to serve something greater than ourselves. Only your power – golden, loud, heroic. And mine – quiet, blue…and monstrous in others' eyes."

"You're not a monster, Will," Mike said automatically, but even to himself his words sounded flat, a learned gesture.

Will smiled – that same sad, understanding smile Mike had seen at the ball. "Thank you. But we both know that doesn't matter. What matters is only what threat or benefit we represent to the kingdom. You – the shield. I…I'm still a question without an answer."

Silence fell, broken only by the quiet dripping of water somewhere in pipes. Mike wanted to say something. Ask what he meant by ‘negotiation’ with the power. Ask if he was lonely in this new, confident skin. Ask why he had looked at him in the hall that way…But words wouldn't come. They stuck somewhere in his throat, mixed with that dark, incomprehensible feeling that only flared from this closeness, from Will's calm, ruthless self-analysis.

"I should get back," Will finally said, breaking the silence – "I'm apparently expected for another dance with the chancellor's daughter. Politics, you know." He adjusted the folds of his cloak, and the glowing embroidery flashed a bit brighter. "And you – prepare for the campaign. Take the amulets from my tower tomorrow, I'll leave them on the table."

He moved toward the exit, passing so close to Mike that he felt the coolness emanating from him – not hostile, just different, like the breath of a cave. And again their eyes met. Up close. So close Mike saw the tiniest shades in his pupils: emerald, sea green, a dark, almost black rim.

"Take care of yourself there, among the ruins," Will said quietly – "Dark forces…they love to devour bright hearts. Don't let yours go out."

And before Mike found an answer, Will was gone, dissolving in the dark doorway. His coolness and the smell of ozone still hung in the air.

Mike was left alone in the quiet greenhouse. Music from the ball reached him, but now it sounded like mockery. He clenched his fists, feeling chaos raging inside him. Duty said one thing. Unexplainable fury at the sight of Will with others – another. Will's cold statement of their shared loneliness – a third.

He never asked anything important. Didn't understand his feelings. Only got a promise of amulets and a warning about darkness. And the realization that the chasm between them, which he once naively hoped to overcome, hadn't narrowed. It had turned into an abyss, on whose edges they now stood – two soldiers of different armies, bound only by the memory of a purple cloak and a childhood tower that now seemed another, incredibly distant world.

💫

1195.

The return was not triumphant, but funereal. Not to the ringing of bells and enthusiastic crowd cries, but to the monotonous patter of rain on the stone slabs of the inner courtyard. Autumn in Hawkins that year was not golden, but rotten, damp, soaked with the smell of wet foliage and smoke from distant, still unextinguished fires.

Mike dismounted, and his legs, a whole year feeling only stirrups and earth, barely held him. He was heavy – not just from caked-on mud, rusted patches under his mail, but from fatigue ingrained in his bones deeper than cold. A year on the eastern front – not a war, but a meat grinder. No heroic battles, just endless skirmishes in fog, ambushes in swamps, night assaults on rotten palisades. And creatures. Not men – something that once was them, but now moved with unnatural, clicking joint grace and glowed in the dark with sickly yellow eyes.

On his face, beside the old, thin scar, now sported a new one – rough, purple-blue, crossing his cheek from cheekbone to corner of mouth. A gift from a creature's claw that even the paladin's blessing couldn't fully heal. The blessing…it was still with him, but its light inside had become harsher, colder, like honed steel. It burned not for inspiration, but for survival. For killing.

He handed his horse to a squire, nodding to greetings from guards at the gate. Their faces were tense, glances shifty. Something more than pre-storm tension hung in the air. The smell of fear. Or betrayal.

The first he met in the almost deserted, cold corridors was the old castellan. He hobbled with a pile of parchments, seeing Mike, flinched, and the scrolls scattered on the floor.

"S-sir Michael! You…you're back!"

"Back," Mike rasped, helping to pick up the scrolls. The old man's hands trembled. "What's happening here, Horgren? The castle's like a ghost town."

The castellan avoided his gaze.

"The courtiers…are in council. With the princess. The King…His Majesty is very weak. They say his days are numbered." He fell silent, then, lowering his voice to a whisper, blurted "Have you heard? About young Master Byers?"

Ice moved somewhere under Mike's ribs. "Will? What about Will?"

Horgren paled even more. "Fled. A month ago, declared an outlaw. For treason and…and an attempt on the royal family." Saying this, he shook like an aspen leaf, grabbed his scrolls, and almost ran off, leaving Mike standing in the gloomy, empty corridor.

The words didn't immediately form meaning. Fled. Outlaw. Attempt. Each like a separate blow to the chest. A year. A whole year he received no letters. Not from Jane – that was understandable, affairs of state. But from Will…he had waited. In rare moments of quiet by the campfire he caught himself thinking he waited for news in that familiar, nervous script. Waited for reports of new paintings, strange finds in the library, of how autumn smelled in the castle. Nothing came. He thought Will was offended, angry about something, or…or simply had no time. Now he understood. No time, because a month ago he was declared a traitor.

Mike didn't run. He walked – with heavy, measured steps, leaving dirty footprints on the polished floor, heading to the princess's private chambers. Guards at the door – already new, unfamiliar faces – wanted to stop him, but met his gaze. The gaze of a man just returned from hell. They parted.

Jane sat by the fireplace in her study. No fire burned – only cold ash. She was alone. Sat wrapped in a dark green velvet cloak, staring into emptiness. On the table before her lay not scrolls, but maps with troop markers, reports with seals. She looked burnt out. Her beauty had become fragile, like porcelain with a visible crack beneath. Seeing him, she didn't smile. Only her eyes, huge with weariness, filled with a complex mix of relief and new pain.

"Mike," her voice was lifeless as the ash in the fireplace – "I saw your squad from the north tower. Welcome to the ruins."

He closed the door behind him, and the click of the lock sounded incredibly loud. "What happened to Will?" he asked without preamble. His own voice sounded alien, low, hoarse with smoke and screams.

Jane flinched as if struck. She averted her eyes, her fingers clutching the edge of her cloak. "Officially? He was found guilty of colluding with dark forces to poison my father and seize power. Evidence was found in his tower…components for poisons, correspondence with unknowns from beyond the border, diagrams for bypassing palace guards."

Mike laughed – the sound came out short, dry, and bitter. "Nonsense. Complete nonsense. Will could destroy half the castle with one flare if he wanted. Why would he need poisons?"

"Because it looks more convincing to the Council and the people!" Jane suddenly cried out, rising from her chair. Fire flashed in her eyes – not anger, but despair. "Because they needed something tangible! Not just 'he's a dangerous mage,' but a concrete, understandable conspiracy. His magic…it always frightened them. And after those outbreaks of blight in the south, cattle dying, strange illnesses…they needed a scapegoat. Will was the perfect candidate. Alone, strange, with a power no one understands."

Mike came closer, and now he saw it all: deep shadows under her eyes, a fine network of wrinkles at her lips that hadn't been there before. "And you allowed that to happen?"

It was a low blow. Jane recoiled as if slapped. "Allowed?" her voice broke into a whisper. "I warned him, Mike. That same night the Council passed the verdict to my father. I sent my most loyal maid to him with a note. One word: 'Run.' He understood. He was ready. Used some of his magic…a portal, an illusion, I don't know. By morning his tower was empty, and the 'evidence' was planted later."

She sank back into the chair as if strength left her. "Father…he's almost not himself anymore. Healers say it's not just illness, it's something…magical. Slow. And the Council, and the generals – they're sure it's Will's doing. That he's avenging something…for his mother, for Jim, for his exile, which hadn't even happened yet. They don't need logic, they need a guilty head."

Mike stood, feeling the cold from the fireplace seep under his armor, to his very heart. A year in hell. A year to believe you're defending something worthwhile. And returned – and that "something" was eating its own best, purest people.

"Where is he?" he asked, and in his voice sounded the same steel that was in his blessing.

Jane shook her head, and a single, swift, fierce tear rolled down her cheek. "I don't know. And that's for the best. If I knew…they'd torture it out of me. Or out of you. He disappeared into nowhere, no traces. He knows any connection is death. For him. And for whoever contacts him."

She looked at him, and in her gaze was a plea. "Mike, you must understand. I still don't believe in his guilt. But I – am a princess, and soon – a queen. My duty, it's to the kingdom. And the kingdom, its court, its army…they demand Will's blood. If you start investigating now, speaking in his defense…you'll be accused as an accomplice. Your paladinhood, your merits – all dust in the wind when it comes to fear of magic. You'll be the next target."

Mike listened to her, and the words reached him but bounced off like from armor. He saw before him not a princess, but a frightened girl locked in a cage of duty. And he saw something else – an empty tower with paintings, cold, blue sparks on fingers in the greenhouse, green eyes full of sad understanding. We're both doomed to serve something greater.

"So that's it," Mike said quietly – "He was betrayed. Thrown out like used material, and we should just…accept it?"

"We must survive," Jane whispered – "So that someday, when this insane fear passes, there will be someone to restore justice. But not now. Now.…now he must disappear."

Mike turned away, looking into the dead fireplace. A storm raged in his chest. Fury – at the Council, the system, his own duty that led him here, to this dead end. Pain – for Will, alone, betrayed, cornered. And fear. Not for himself. For the one somewhere out there, in the autumn chill, without friends, without a home, carrying within him a power that could both save and destroy him.

"I won't be on his manhunt," he said, not turning – "Tell the Council I'm wounded. That I need time, that I'm unfit."

"Mike..."

"Tell them!" his voice thundered like a thunderclap in the small room, making her flinch. He turned, and in his eyes, in the slits of weariness and pain, Jane saw something new – a dangerous, uncontrollable resolve. "And if even one of your loyal hounds finds him before me…I don't know what I'll do."

Mike didn't wait for an answer. Turned and left, leaving her alone in the cold room with ash in the fireplace and an impossible duty on her shoulders.

The castle corridors, once home, now seemed a labyrinth of alien, hostile walls. Mike walked to his quarters, and each step echoed in the emptiness around him. He returned from war to find another, dirtier war. And his sword, blessed by Light, hung helplessly at his hip now, because the real enemy wasn't in the eastern swamps. He was here, in these walls, in the hearts of the people he swore to protect. And his only ally, the person whose heart he perhaps never managed to see, was now a ghost whose name couldn't be spoken aloud.

The night in his quarters was not rest, but a continuation of torture. Mike lay on the hard bed, boots on, breastplate not even unclasped. He stared into the darkness of the ceiling, where memory projected not battle scenes, but fragments of the last year.

Silence. Its absence was the loudest. Not a single whisper from behind the wall where Will used to live. No smell of ozone and lavender he sometimes caught in the corridor. No vague, warm pulse of alien, familiar magic he had grown accustomed to over the years like his own heartbeat. Emptiness. Physical, palpable, like an amputated limb.

His own blessing, golden and cold, seethed inside, demanding action. It was made to protect, to seek threat, to destroy it. But the threat now was blurred, abstract – the system, fear, betrayal. And the paladin's light didn't know how to fight shadow; it only knew how to cut and burn. This mismatch birthed an internal storm. The golden scar blazed nonstop, glowing in the dark with a ghostly light, as if a second, furious heart beat under the skin.

He couldn't accept it. Jane's words about duty, survival, ‘someday’ seemed like dust. Will was not a strategic asset. He was…Will. The one whose hands drew dragons on tower walls. The one whose eyes filled with panic from his own power. The one who silently endured his detachment, his absorption with Jane, his deafness. The one who looked at him in the greenhouse with such infinite, piercing sadness, as if already knowing how it would all end.

"Where to look?" the question beat in his temples like an alarm.

He sifted through memory: every conversation of recent years. Will had become secretive, but not silent. He spoke of magic, its origins, sensations.

"Sometimes, to muffle the voices here," – Will touched his temple – "I listen to voices there, in the earth, in old stones. There are places where echoes of the past sound louder than the present."

Drawings. Mike jumped from the bed, went to a chest where he kept his few personal things. Under a folded cloak, under a whetstone and spare belts lay a bundle. He unwrapped it with trembling hands: small sketches on parchment, gifted over different years. A view from their childhood tower. A portrait of laughing Jane. And…landscapes – not of the castle, but forest thickets bathed in moonlight, strange rocky formations like sleeping giants. One particularly detailed drawing: a spring bubbling from under a black, moss-covered stone, and around – frost on grass despite summer ferns. On the back, in small, cramped handwriting: "Cold Springs. A place of power, but not a light one. The water remembers ice there, and stones saw stars fall. Mom said it's better not to go there. Of course, I went."

Cold Springs. A forsaken, reputedly cursed tract two days' journey northeast of Hawkins, on the border with the Wild Lands. A place where, according to legends, even before men came, something fell from the sky, making the earth forever frozen in spots, and magic behaved unstable.

Another memory, from adult Will in that same greenhouse: "If everything becomes completely unbearable…there are places where the boundary between worlds is thin. Where you can…dissolve. Or hide so that no one whose magic doesn't resonate with the same chaos will find you."

Will wouldn't run to cities or villages – he'd be found. His power was a beacon to those who could sense such things. But to hide in a place where nature itself radiated chaotic, wild magical background? That's like hiding a needle in a stack of needles.

And another – a very recent memory, from that very ball. Will, looking at him and speaking of ‘negotiation’ with the power, of accepting it. He was no longer afraid of his own alienness, he learned to live with it. So, in a place that itself was alien, he would be…more at ease, safer.

Thoughts whirling madly in his head suddenly formed into cold, iron certainty. He knew. He couldn't explain it logically – it was a hunch grown from friendship, observation, a thousand unnoticed details. But he was sure, as never sure of command orders.

Jane is right. If I start openly, I'll be considered an accomplice. So, it must be not openly.

Mike acted quickly, without extra noise. Shed the heavy ceremonial breastplate, left only light, traveling mail and a leather jacket. Gathered a pouch with essentials: dried meat, bread, flint, flask. Took his battle sword – not ceremonial, but the one that went through swamps with him, with a jagged but lethal blade. And a small, glittering golden dagger – a gift from the paladin order, its hilt engraved with a prayer to Light. He tucked it into his belt.

He wrote a short note on a scrap of parchment: "Gone. Without a trace. Do not seek. Do not mention until I return. – M." He left it on the table, weighed down by an extinguished candle. Let them think he went mad from wounds, deserted. That would buy him time.

The stables slept. His personal horse, a bay stallion named Blizzard, recognized him in the semi-darkness and softly nickered, nuzzling his shoulder. Mike saddled him quickly, using no lanterns, driven by an almost animal urge for silence and speed.

He led Blizzard out through a secret postern in the eastern wall – the very one they used as children for night escapades. Hawkins Castle, dark and silent, remained behind, swallowed by night and rain.

When he rode out onto the old forest road leading northeast, the first drops of cold autumn downpour hit his face. He didn't even flinch. Rain washed off the battlefield mud, the smell of palace fear. He breathed in the damp, rotting-leaf and freedom-scented air and for the first time in many months felt he was moving in the right direction.

He had no plan in his head of what to say when he found Will. No thoughts of consequences. Only a navigational point – Cold Springs – and an all-consuming, burning necessity.

See him. Make sure he's whole. Shield him from the whole world if need be.

Everything else – duty, oath, Light's blessing – receded to the background, muted by a more ancient, simpler law: you don't abandon your own. Especially the one who, as he now understood with horror, had been his own all along, even when Mike himself was looking the other way.

Blizzard galloped, hooves thudding dully on the soaked earth. And the golden scar on Mike's face finally stopped burning. It only glowed faintly, evenly in the night, like a lone beacon in a raging sea, pointing the way not to safety from an enemy, but to what perhaps was the only true salvation.

💫

Three days of travel merged into one continuous nightmare of dank fog, prickly rain, and impassable gloom. The forest changed. Pines and oaks gave way to twisted, almost black alders, branches crooked as if in mute agony. The air grew thicker, heavier, and in it hung not the smell of pine and mushrooms, but a strange, metallic sweetness mixed with rot – as if the earth here fed not on water and sun, but something else.

The magic of this place was felt on the skin. For Mike, whose being was permeated with the golden, ordered light of a paladin, it was torture. Each step forward was like moving against a strong, invisible current. The scar on his face didn't just burn – it ached, a dull, irritating pain, as if hot sand were poured under the skin. His blessing, usually a quiet, confident flame inside, seethed and thrashed like a cornered beast. It screamed of danger, corruption, the unnaturalness of everything around. Even Blizzard was nervous, snorting, the whites of his eyes visible in the forest's half-dark.

But Mike walked. He hardly slept, ate hardtack, washing it down with water from streams that tasted too clean, too cold, lifeless. Will's drawing was his map. He searched for those very rocky formations of sleeping giants. And found them.

They rose on the edge of a small valley shrouded in milky, motionless mist. Three huge boulders covered in black moss and lichen, piled on each other unnaturally, as if thrown by a giant's hand. And between them, at their foot, bubbled that very spring. The water flowed not from the ground, but seemed to seep through the stone itself – a black, time-and-moisture-polished monolith. Around the spring, on brown autumn grass, lay frost – not seasonal, morning frost, but dense, crystalline, bluish. And the ferns around were indeed green as in high summer, but their green was poisonous, unhealthy, tinged with blue.

And there, by this icy spring, sat Will.

He didn't see Mike at first. He sat in a meditative pose on a flat stone right by the water, back to the forest. He wore a simple, dark gray cloak with the hood pulled up. His hands lay on his knees, palms up. His white scars glowed with a deep, dark blue light, like a bottomless lake on a moonless night. From them stretched thin, almost invisible threads of the same light, going into the mist, the earth, the black water of the spring, like pulsating roots. The air around him trembled, distorting, like over hot stones in a desert, only here the shimmer was icy. From Will emanated absolute, deep calm and…power. Wild, ancient, not-of-this-world power.

Mike froze at the forest edge, and a wave of nausea hit him with new force. His own light strained to break out, yearning to clash with this blue darkness, cleanse it, burn it out. He had to forcefully suppress that impulse, digging his fingers into the bark of a nearby tree. He took a step – the crunch of a branch under his boot sounded like a shot.

The blue threads connecting Will to the earth instantly snapped. The light on his scars flared brightly, blindingly, and went out. Will shuddered all over, as if torn from deep sleep, and turned sharply.

The hood fell back. His face, pale, almost transparent in this place, twisted not with fear, but with pure, mute panic. Green eyes, which now held constant, bottomless weariness, widened seeing Mike. In them flashed disbelief, then – swift, burning horror.

"No..." escaped Will in a whisper. He jumped to his feet, his movements sharp, animal-fast. "No, no, no! What are you doing here?"

Mike tried to take a step forward, but his legs seemed rooted to the ground.

"Will..."

"You idiot!" Will cried out, and his voice, usually so restrained, broke into a high, cracked note. It was not anger, but despair. Real, panicked despair. "A complete, hopeless idiot! Don't you understand you'll be declared wanted now? That you've contacted a state criminal? You've just signed your own death warrant!"

"I don't care," Mike mumbled, finally forcing himself to move forward. Each step came with incredible effort. The place pressed on him, trying to push him out – "I couldn't just..."

"You could! You should have!" Will stepped back, to the very edge of the spring. His hands clenched into fists, blue flickers ran over his skin again. He looked both terrifying and defenseless. "Jane…she warned me. She risked everything! And you…you just come here! Here, where you'll..." He fell silent, swallowing, his gaze sliding over Mike's face, his golden scar now glowing in response to Will's magic proximity. "Where you'll be torn apart. Your power…and this place…they're antagonists. Can't you feel it? You're dying with every step!"

Mike felt it. Felt something dark and cold clawing at his aura, trying to extinguish the inner light. A headache split his skull. But he kept walking. Until he was two steps from Will. He could smell it – ozone, cold stone, and beneath – the familiar, warm smell of Will, lost under layers of magic.

"I had to make sure you were alive," Mike said quietly. His voice was hoarse from strain and pain. "That you were all right."

"All right?" Will snorted, and it sounded almost hysterical. He jabbed a finger toward the castle – "I've been declared a traitor! I'm hiding in a cursed place that's slowly sucking all humanity out of me! I talk to voices in stones because there's no one else! What 'all right' could there be?"

Their gazes locked. Mike saw in the green eyes a storm: fury, fear, uninvited hope, and such deep, all-consuming weariness that his heart clenched. He saw something else – fine wrinkles at the eyes that were once smooth, a shadow of hunger on cheekbones. He had fled in clothes that now hung on him like sacks.

And then Mike took the last step. Overcoming the resistance of the place, overcoming the protest of his blessing, overcoming everything.

He simply reached out a hand – not for a handshake, but for something more.

Will froze. His anger, his panic, all of it seemed to ebb, revealing the naked, trembling wound beneath. He looked at the outstretched hand, then at Mike's face. His own hands unclenched.

And he fell forward.

Not fell. Threw himself. As if a dam holding everything back burst. He crashed into Mike with such force Mike barely kept his feet. Cold, clinging hands with shimmering scars wrapped around his back, dug into the leather jacket. Will's head buried itself in his shoulder, his neck. His whole body shook – not from sobs, but from a muffled, soundless tremor, like an animal escaped from a trap.

Mike, stunned for a second, instinctively hugged him back. Tightly. So tightly as if wanting to protect him from the whole world, from this cursed land, from himself. He felt Will's cold magic beating against his own, creating a strange, painful tingling at the boundary of their bodies. But beneath that – warmth. Fragile, human warmth. And endless trembling.

They stood like that, among icy frost and poison-green ferns, in the very heart of magic hostile to Mike, and time lost meaning. The noise of the forest, the hiss of the spring – all receded.

And then, into the silence, into the space between heartbeats, Will exhaled. Not a word. A choked, torn sound. Then – a whisper. Quiet, breaking, full of such relief and such genuine, childish longing it took Mike's breath away.

"Mike..."

Not "Sir Michael." Not "Michael." Not even "knight." Just Mike. The name that sounded only in childhood, in their closest, most trusted company. A name he hadn't heard from him in years.

That single syllable, whispered into the skin of his neck, sounded louder than any cry, any plea. It was a key unlocking something ancient and still in the deepest part of Mike's soul. Something that had no relation to paladinhood, duty, knightly code. Something simple and all-encompassing.

And Mike, still not fully understanding what was happening, only held Will tighter, closed his eyes, and let this cursed place do whatever it wanted with him. Because in that moment nothing mattered except the fragile body in his arms and that quiet, broken whisper that finally ended a year of silence.

The embrace lasted an eternity and an instant. While Mike held Will, the world narrowed to a point of contact, to trembling in thin shoulders, to the cold glow of scars burning his palms through fabric. But the curse of the place didn't sleep. A wave of nausea hit with new, crushing force. The golden light inside him, squeezed in a vice of alien magic, flared in fury and pain. White sparks danced before his eyes, ringing in his ears, the sound of the spring and Will's breathing grew distant as if from under a thick layer of water.

"Mike?" Will's voice sounded muffled, anxious.

Mike tried to answer, but his tongue felt like cotton. His legs gave way. He didn't fall, but heavily leaned on Will, who flinched from surprise and tension.

"Oh, no…no, I told you..." Will babbled in panic, trying to keep him on his feet. His hands, a second ago clinging and trembling, now became support. "You have to go. Now. This land…it's sucking your power out like a vampire. You'll burn out here."

Mike nodded with difficulty, taking a convulsive breath. The air, sweetish-rotten, burned his lungs. "Horse…at the edge..."

Will, to Mike's surprise, turned out stronger than he looked. He deftly caught him under the arm, almost dragging him, ignoring his own exhausted appearance. His magic, it seemed, on the contrary, flourished in this place – he moved confidently, and his scars glowed with an even, protective light, as if repelling the aura hostile to Mike.

Blizzard, anxious and nervous, stamped a hoof seeing them. Mike with difficulty shoved his foot into the stirrup, Will pushed from behind, helping him mount. Then, with agility Mike didn't expect from a hermit-mage, Will jumped up behind him, holding firmly around his waist.

"Hold on," Will whispered into his back, his voice firm, commanding. "Don't lose consciousness. Breathe. Remember something…bright, something warm."

Mike nodded, gripping Blizzard's mane. He tried to focus on the feeling of Will's chest against his back, his arms holding him. It was hard. Each distance from Cold Springs was agonizing, as if being dragged against a powerful magnet. But with each step of the horse, with each breath smelling now not of metal but pine and rotting leaf, the pressure weakened. The golden light inside slowly straightened, ceasing to be a compressed spring of agony. The headache receded, replaced by a dull, exhausting throb.

They rode in silence. Will held him tightly, his breathing even, but Mike felt how tense he was, searching for a path, watching the forest. He was a fugitive. Every rustle could be pursuit.

After several hours, when the sun already slanted toward sunset, staining the sky in dirty crimson tones, they found shelter. A small cave in a rocky hill, hidden by holly and hanging roots. The place was dry and, more importantly, neutral – neither crushing light nor suffocating darkness was felt here.

Will slid off the horse first and helped Mike, whose legs still obeyed poorly. He sat him at the cave entrance on a soft carpet of last year's leaves.

"Sit, don't move," Will ordered, and in his voice again appeared echoes of that confidence from the ball. But now it was directed at care.

Mike, obedient, watched as Will quickly and efficiently set up camp. He removed the saddle from Blizzard, found dry wood in the forest, lit a fire with a snap of his fingers – a blue spark fell on kindling, and flame flared evenly and hot. He got a pot from his meager packs, filled it with water from a nearby stream, hung it over the fire. Then, rummaging in Mike's bag, found that pouch of provisions.

In the firelight, Will looked even more exhausted, but also more…real. Without the court mask, without the protective glow of magic. Just a very tired guy with fluffy, disheveled hair and huge green eyes. He broke off a piece of stale bread, held it to the fire, and in a couple seconds it was covered with a ruddy, appetizing crust. He did this several times, carefully, almost reverently, and handed the first piece to Mike.

"Eat. Slowly."

Mike took the bread. It was warm and smelled of smoke. He took a bite, and the taste of simple food after days of travel and the nightmare of the Springs seemed the best food in the world. He ate, and Will watched him like a strict healer, then began to eat himself – in small, greedy bites, as if unaccustomed to normal food.

"You…you're taking care of me," Mike rasped when the first wave of weakness passed.

Will didn't raise his eyes, kneading a piece of jerky in his fingers. "Someone has to. You came galloping here like a hero from a ballad, ready to die from noble intention. Someone has to ensure survival."

But in his eyes was none of the former sarcasm. There was weary tenderness.

When they had eaten, silence fell. Only the crackling of fire and distant howl of wind in the rocks. They sat opposite each other, separated by flame, and the year of separation hung between them like a heavy, invisible veil.

"Tell me," Mike asked quietly. He already felt better, his strength returning. But he didn't want to talk about himself, about the war – "What happened? For real."

Will sighed. He leaned back on his folded cloak, his face in shadow, lit only from below by fire, seemed carved from dark wood.

"It started with the king's illness," he began monotonously, without emotion – "It was…strange. Didn't respond to ordinary healers. And didn't respond to my magic. Or rather, it did, but…with backlash. I tried to heal, and he got worse. As if what was in him fed on light magic, and mine…mine isn't light."

He paused, playing with the amulet on his neck.

"The Council, especially Lord Hargrave and Bishop Thomas, always saw me as a threat. The king's illness became their trump card. They started whispering. That it wasn't an illness, but a curse. And who falls under first suspicion? The only mage at court, and with a dark, incomprehensible power at that. Then…then 'evidence' started appearing. In my tower they 'found' packets of powder from poisonous swamp moss. Forged letters with seals of southern mages we're at war with. Even…even a diagram of secret passages to the king's bedroom, drawn, supposedly, by my hand."

"But that's nonsense!" Mike couldn't help it.

"For those who want to believe – it isn't," Will smiled bitterly – "Fear is an excellent solvent for logic. Fear of magic, of the unexplained, of what you can't control. They feared me, Mike. Always. And when there's a ready scapegoat to blame all troubles on..."

He fell silent, looking at the fire.

"Jane tried to resist. But she was alone against the whole Council. And then…there was an incident. I tried to meditate to muffle the voices, which became unbearable from all this tension. Something went wrong. Power burst out. Not much, just…an icy explosion in my room. Blew a bookshelf apart, froze a window. No one was hurt. But for them it became final proof. 'He can't control himself! He's dangerous! He's attacking!' The Council passed the verdict to Jane's father. Then arrest, interrogations that I knew would end on the rack or block. I took only the most necessary and…dissolved. Used magic to leave a false trail south, and went here, where those seeking a man won't find me – here they seek only a certain type of magic. And I…I became part of the background."

Will finished. The story was told without pathos, with the simplicity of a man who had accepted his fate.

"A month," Mike whispered – "A whole month you've been here alone."

"Not quite alone," Will smiled weakly – "Voices in stones – not the best company, but not the worst either. At least they don't pretend."

Mike looked at him across the fire – at this man who once trembled with fear of his own power, now speaking of voices in stones as something ordinary. Who was betrayed, slandered, driven into a corner, and yet…not broken. There was some new, quiet resilience in him. And that evoked in Mike not only fury at the injustice, but something like awe. And that same, incomprehensible pain in his chest he felt at the ball.

"I won't leave you," Mike said, and the words escaped on their own before he thought them through – "I don't know what we'll do, but I won't go."

Will raised his eyes to him; in the pupils reflected jumps of flame. "You're a knight, a paladin. You have a duty..."

"My duty was to protect the kingdom," Mike interrupted, his voice grew stronger – "But what kind of kingdom is it if it devours its best sons out of fear and intrigue? My duty..." he stumbled, searching for words – "...is here now. With you."

He didn't fully understand what he was saying. But felt it was the only truth in this upturned world.

Will looked at him for a long time. Then slowly rose, his shabby cloak sliding from his shoulders. He walked around the fire and sat down on the ground again, but now next to Mike, so close their shoulders almost touched.

"You were always stubborn," Will said quietly – "Even when you were a dumb boy who only saw the princess in front of his nose."

Mike snorted but didn't argue. It was a bitter and uncomfortable truth.

"Thank you for coming," Will whispered, and his voice trembled again, losing confidence, exposing that same old wound – "Even if it was stupid. Even if it ruins everything. Thank you."

And he hugged Mike again, but this time it was different. Not a desperate lunge, but a slow, conscious movement. He pressed against his side, put his head on his shoulder, and all his body, it seemed, finally relaxed, releasing the tension of a whole year of survival alone.

Mike froze for a second, then hugged him back. His arm lay on his back, feeling under the thin fabric of his shirt ribs, vertebrae. He was so thin. So exhausted. And so…precious. This realization came suddenly and overwhelmed him – not as an epiphany, but as something that had always been there, deep down, and only now surfaced, cleansed by pain, fear, and this quiet evening by the fire in a cave.

They sat like that, motionless, listening to the fire crackle and wind howl outside. The world beyond the cave walls was hostile, full of dangers and injustice. But here, in this small circle of light and warmth, it was quiet, safe. There were two of them. And as long as they were together, everything else – duty, crown, curses – could wait.

The fire burned down to warm, crimson coals that gave no more light but still held heat. A ringing, almost tangible silence reigned in the cave, broken only by rare crackles of dying embers and the noise of wind on the rocks outside. The air gradually cooled, and cold, sharp, damp, creeping from the depths of the hill, began to steal across the stone floor, reaching their improvised bed.

Mike lay on his back, staring into the impenetrable darkness of the vault. His body, hardened by years of campaigns, wasn't afraid of hard ground, but nervous tension bound his muscles like a steel spring. He felt every movement, every breath of Will lying beside him. The polite distance of a palm's width between them felt like an abyss and at the same time an unbearable closeness.

And then he heard it. First – a choked sigh. Then – a light, almost imperceptible chattering of teeth. Shivering. It transmitted through the ground, fine, intermittent, like a hunted little animal. Mike froze, listening. A memory surfaced: their childhood tower, a cold autumn night, and Will, huddling in that very purple cloak, his green eyes in the dark large and plaintive. "Mike, I'm c-cold." Back then he, laughing, gave him his own cloak and moved closer to share warmth.

"Cold?" his voice sounded in the silence louder than he expected, hoarse from awkwardness.

Will didn't answer immediately. Mike heard him swallow. "A l-little. This place…it draws warmth. Even my magic doesn't save me. It's part of this cold, not protection from it."

Mike knew he was right. The freezing aura of Cold Springs still hung around Will like frosty rime. But knowing – was one thing. Lying beside and listening to the person he'd just found chatter his teeth from cold – was quite another.

Reason raised alarm: he was a knight, a paladin. Decent people, especially men, don't sleep embracing. It's improper, strange, violates all unwritten rules. His body, however, didn't listen to reason. Every cell in him screamed of the need to warm, protect, shelter. It was an ancient, prereflexive instinct, stronger than any discipline.

Will's shivering intensified. He curled into a ball, trying to preserve pitiful remnants of warmth. Mike heard his own heart start pounding somewhere in his throat. The struggle lasted only a few seconds but felt like eternity. Finally, he quietly cursed under his breath and turned on his side, facing Will.

In the dim glow of coals, he saw only a vague silhouette: knees drawn up, hunched shoulders, a shadow of disheveled hair.

"Will," he called again, and this time his voice held not a request, but a quiet command. A command to himself.

"Mmhm?" Will responded, and his voice was as icy and thin as an icicle.

"Move closer."

A pause. In the dark, Mike felt Will freeze, as if trying to comprehend these simple words. Then slowly he shifted a few centimeters. Mike closed the remaining distance with one smooth movement.

He didn't embrace him immediately. First, he just pressed against his back, aligning his body along his curved, trembling figure. He felt Will flinch from surprise, from the touch. His back tensed, became hard and unyielding. Mike held his breath, letting him get used to it, giving him a choice – to move away. But Will didn't move away. The tension gradually began to ease, his back slightly arched, as if offering itself to the shared warmth.

Only then did Mike dare. He carefully, with incredible, almost painful tenderness, wrapped an arm around him. His palm lay on Will's flat stomach, feeling under the thin fabric the hollow, tense muscles. His other arm he slipped under Will's head, turning it into a pillow. And pulled him closer, softly but inexorably, pressing Will's back to his chest, stomach, thighs.

Will made a sound – something between a sigh and a choked groan of relief. His whole body, until then locked in an icy shell, suddenly shuddered and went limp. He let his head fall back on Mike's arm, his nape pressing against Mike's lower jaw. He pressed his back to his chest so tightly as if wanting to absorb all his warmth, all his essence.

And here it washed over Mike.

A wave of sensation so intense that for a second his vision darkened. He felt every detail. Thinness – under his palm he could clearly feel ribs, each like carved bone under parchment skin. Lightness – Will seemed almost weightless in his arms, fragile as a bird. Cold, which slowly, centimeter by centimeter, retreated under the warmth of his own body. He felt the beat of Will's heart – rapid, anxious, but gradually calming, entering resonance with his own, slower and duller thud.

But most of all, the scars astonished him. Through the fabric he felt their relief – not smooth lines, but something like lightning frozen into the skin, congealed rivers. They were colder than the surrounding skin, like ice embedded in flesh. When he involuntarily ran his thumb over one of them, stretching along a rib, Will flinched again.

"Sorry," Mike whispered, freezing – "I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," Will answered just as quietly, and his voice finally lost the icy hoarseness. It sounded muffled, weary, almost sleepy. "They don't hurt. Just…sensitive. Like new nerve endings."

Mike didn't remove his hand. He left it there, on that scar, as if his touch could warm and heal not only the cold, but the memory of the pain that birthed it.

Smell. He inhaled Will's scent: smoke from the fire ingrained in his hair; sweetish, bitter smell of wormwood he probably used to repel insects; smell of damp wool and old stone. And beneath it all – the foundation. That very, elusive and unique smell that was simply…Will. A mix of lavender, old parchment, watercolor paints, and something fresh, electric, like air after a thunderstorm.

Warmth between them grew, became a dense, tangible blanket. Mike felt his own blood, always hot from the paladin's blessing, as if flowing through points of contact into Will, warming him from within. He was afraid to move, afraid to disturb the fragile balance of this moment. His body responded to the closeness embarrassingly vividly – heart pounded, a warm, viscous wave spread through his veins, nothing like shivering from cold. But that was secondary. The main thing – Will stopped shivering, his breathing became deep and even.

"I'm like a stove, huh?" Mike finally spoke, trying to dispel the growing, sweet tension in his own chest and in the air between them.

Will quietly snorted, and Mike felt his back vibrate from silent laughter. "Better. A stove is hard…and doesn't hold so…comfortably."

Will shifted slightly, settling even more comfortably, and his butt softly pressed against Mike's thighs. Mike froze, feeling goosebumps run down his back, blood rushing to his temples. He was almost sure Will could hear his heart hammering. But Will said nothing. Only sighed – a long, sleepy, contented exhale.

"Thanks, Mike," he whispered, and the words were already slurring, drowning in drowsiness – "For the warmth. For…for not letting me freeze. Like before."

"Anytime," Mike answered hoarsely, and his hand, of its own volition, squeezed Will a little tighter, as if wanting to imprint his body's form into itself – "Always."

No more words. Will's breathing became slow and deep, his body completely relaxed, surrendering to the weight of sleep and the safety of these arms. He fell asleep, trusting and defenseless, as in distant childhood.

And Mike lay, unable to close his eyes. He listened to this even rhythm of breathing by his ear, felt Will's chest smoothly rise and fall under his hand. Inside him raged a strange, beautiful and terrifying storm. There was peace – the deepest he had ever known, from the awareness that he was here, that he could protect, that Will was safe. There was joy – pure, irrational, from the very right to hold him so close, feel him, be his shield. And there was a shadow – a shadow of fear of what this meant. Of the strength of a feeling which, as he now understood with horror and delight, had lived in him all along, but only now, in this cold cave, had gained name and form. Of how unbearably painful it would be to ever let go.

He leaned down and, overcoming the last barrier, touched his lips to the top of Will's head. It wasn't a kiss in the usual sense. It was a touch. A seal. A silent vow, burned into the darkness. Where his lips touched soft, fluffy hair, a sensation of heat and incredible, aching tenderness remained.

"Sleep," he whispered so quietly it was almost a thought – "I'm here. I won't go anywhere."

And only when the first, pale gray light of dawn began timidly breaking through the cave opening, coloring the ash of the fire the color of cold steel, did Mike allow his eyelids to close. He didn't let go of Will. Even in sleep, his hand lay on the place where the white scar met the rib. Mike fell asleep, sinking into a dream where there was no flight, no war, no duty. Only the warmth of two bodies woven together against all the world's cold, and the quiet, synchronous duet of their breathing, sounding in complete darkness like the most ancient and faithful prayer.

💫

When the sun's rays, like knife blades, began to pierce deep into the cave, cutting the darkness and falling right on Mike's eyelids, he opened his eyes, and the world didn't return to him immediately. First – sensation, deep, all-encompassing warmth in his chest, weight on his arm, slow, even breathing right at his ear. Then – smell: smoke, wormwood, and beneath it that very, elusive, belonging only to him.

Memories flooded in, clear and blinding – the embrace, the shivering, his own body pressed to Will's back like a shield. The kiss on the top of the head.

Mike froze, trying to breathe quietly. His hand still lay on Will's stomach, palm pressed to the scar, which now seemed just part of the skin, indistinguishable in temperature. He felt every movement of the ribcage on an inhale. Will slept, completely relaxed, his nape still resting on Mike's bent arm, and slender fingers clutching his forearm – unconsciously, in sleep.

It was unthinkably beautiful. And utterly inadmissible.

The paladin instinct, lulled by the night, awoke with the light. This is wrong. Not according to regulations. Not according to duty. His body, however, fiercely rebelled. It screamed that this – was the only right place in the world. That to move away now would be a betrayal more terrible than any desertion.

Mike slowly, with the utmost care not to wake him, tried to move his hand. His muscles ached from long immobility. At that same moment, Will stirred. Without waking, he made a quiet, displeased sound and pressed his back to him even tighter, as if trying to preserve escaping warmth.

Mike's heart hammered wildly. He closed his eyes, gathering strength, and made a jerk, pulled away, freed his arm and sat up, scooting half a meter away on the cold stone floor.

Cold hit his back, and he felt like an idiot. Will flinched, deprived of warmth and support, and slowly opened his eyes. He blinked, looking at the ceiling, then slowly turned his head. His gaze met Mike's.

Thick, awkward, ringing silence fell. Will looked at him, and across his face ran a wave of understanding – where he was, with whom, and what had happened at night. Bright, painful color flushed his pale cheeks. He quickly sat up, averting his eyes, his fingers nervously smoothing disheveled hair.

"Morning," Mike rasped, and his voice sounded like the creak of rusty gates.

"Yes," Will nodded shortly, staring at the dead coals. He grabbed his knees with his hands, as if trying to become small and inconspicuous again. "Thanks. I wasn't cold."

"Good," Mike said, feeling each word came with incredible effort. He stood up, stretching stiff limbs, and reached for his pack, pretending to be busy. "We need to move. This place is too close to the Springs, they could track us."

"Who?" Will asked quietly, not raising his head.

"Whoever the Council sends. Or those who sense magic like I do," Mike admitted, pouring water from his flask into his palms and washing his face. The icy moisture cleared his thoughts a bit.

Will nodded. He rose too, his movements stiff, as if he'd put on invisible armor of detachment again. "Where? We can't go back to civilization."

"No," Mike agreed, unfolding a tattered map from his travel sack. He pointed a finger at an area northeast of Cold Springs, beyond the kingdom's maps, in an area simply marked "Wild Lands" – "There, where Hawkins' laws don't reach. Where your aura will blend with the background, where they won't look for us first."

Will came closer, looking over his shoulder, his breath touching Mike's neck, and he suppressed a shudder. "Wild Lands…they say there are ruins older than men there. And magic there is wild, unordered…Maybe I'll find answers there about what's in me."

"Or just refuge," Mike said, rolling up the map. He didn't want to think about searching for answers. He wanted to think about survival. About Will being safe. "Gather your things. I'll scout the area, check on Blizzard."

They went about their tasks silently, avoiding eye contact. Mike led the horse out, fed him leftover oats, checked the shoes. Will rolled up his meager belongings and buried traces of the fire. Awkwardness hung in the air like morning mist. It seemed the night had erased years of familiarity and placed them on a new, uncharted plane where every movement, every word had to be measured.

When they were ready to move out, Will suddenly said, looking somewhere toward the forest: "Remember, in childhood, we also woke up in strange places after night forays into the forest. And it was awkward too. Especially when you snored."

Mike turned, surprised. Will looked at him, and in his eyes flashed an old, sly spark. It was a peace offering. An attempt to bring back something familiar into this new, frightening world.

Mike snorted, feeling the stone of awkwardness in his chest shift a little. "I didn't snore. You were the one wheezing like a bunny."

"Lies and slander, Sir Knight," Will retorted, and on his lips trembled a weak, real smile. He went to Blizzard and lightly jumped into the saddle, now in front, giving Mike the place behind. "Well then, will you lead us through the wild lands, oh great guide?"

Mike sat behind, his arms automatically wrapping around Will's waist to hold on. Contact again, after the morning distancing, was like an electric shock. But this time Will didn't tense – he only leaned back slightly, trusting his weight to him.

"Hold on tight, bunny," Mike muttered and nudged the horse into motion.

Their journey was silent, but not as heavy. They avoided trails and roads, moving through dense woods and rocky scree. Mike hunted game with his reliable sling, Will found edible roots and berries, and sometimes strange glowing mushrooms which, he claimed, were safe ‘for ones like him.’ In the evenings Mike lit a fire, and Will drew with charcoal on flat stones – quick sketches of birds, trees, rocks. Sometimes, furtively, Mike...

They spoke little: about the past – too painful, about the future – too vague. They spoke of weather, animal tracks, the taste of wild garlic. But in this silent coexistence, in the synchronicity of their movements – Mike cleaning game, Will immediately tossing kindling into the fire; Will pointing direction, Mike instantly adjusting it, skirting a ravine – something new was born. Awkwardness slowly melted, replaced by deep, wordless understanding.

They were two exiles in a huge, hostile world, and their alliance, born of friendship, tested by betrayal and sealed by the warmth of one cold night, was now all they had left. And wherever they headed – to ruins, to answers, or simply into nowhere – they went there together. Paladin and sorcerer. Knight without an army and wizard without a tower. Two hearts beating in unison to the clatter of hooves on wild, unfamiliar earth.

Evening found them at a small but reliable shelter – under an overhanging cliff they further covered with cut fir branches. It became something like a cave, only drier and more protected from wind. Inside smelled of pine needles, smoke, and damp earth. The fire, lit in a hollow, cast dancing shadows on the walls, and beyond their little refuge, the impenetrable, cold night of the Wild Lands already thickened.

Dinner was eaten in habitual silence. But today the silence was of a different quality – it hung between them not just as absence of words, but as an unspoken mountain ready to collapse. Mike felt its weight on his shoulders. He looked at Will, who sat with legs tucked under him, cleaning a feather of some unseen bird – he was going to make a new brush. His profile in the firelight was concentrated, but his lips were pressed into a thin, tense line.

The painting, that very one with the knight and dragon – it had been before his eyes all this time, since they talked in the tower. Now, in this fragile silence, with no walls between them, physical or social, there were only the two of them and the truth that slowly but surely was gnawing its way out.

"Will," Mike began, and his voice, accustomed to giving orders, sounded uncertain.

Will flinched but didn't raise his eyes. "M-hm?"

"That painting. You said Jane asked you to depict me, the knight, as the heart of our company. Her admiration."

Will's fingers froze on the feather. He slowly lowered it. "Yes."

"I asked her about it, the day after the gift."

Silence fell, in which only the crackle of resinous branches in the fire was heard. Will sat motionless, as if turned to stone.

"She said she didn't ask for any painting," Mike continued, forcing himself to speak calmly though everything inside clenched – "That the last time she asked you to draw something was three years ago. And it was a coat of arms for her new dress."

Will closed his eyes. His face, lit from below, twisted in a grimace of pain, as if struck in the most vulnerable spot.

"Why did you lie to me?" Mike asked. The question was quiet, but in it sounded all the accumulated deafness of these years, all the misunderstanding.

Will laughed. The sound was short, dry, and bitter as ash. "Why?" He opened his eyes, and in them was no trace of former confidence or detachment. Only naked, defenseless pain. "Because otherwise I couldn't tell you that, Mike. Because you wouldn't have understood. You never understood."

"Understood what?" Mike felt a strange mix flare in his chest – anger at the lie and some primal fear of what was about to be said.

"Me!" burst out of Will, and he sharply stood, throwing the feather aside. He paced the small space, his shadow on the wall darting, huge and distorted. "You, Jane, the whole damned court, the whole world – you never understood what it means to be like me! To be…different. To the marrow!"

He stopped, turning to face Mike. Tears stood in his eyes, but they didn't fall, only making the green eyes even brighter, more painful.

"At first it was just the magic," he spoke, and the words poured out swiftly, as if he'd held them back all his life – "Not the beautiful kind from fairy tales, but this…tentacled, cold, alien. It scared everyone. Scared me. I was a freak. A curiosity. Then…then came the understanding that I'm not like everyone else, not just in that. That what other boys felt for girls…I didn't feel. At all. Well, or felt, but not like that. Not toward them."

He paused, his chest heaving heavily. Mike sat stunned, unable to utter a word.

"You," Will whispered, and his voice broke, became thin and cracked as in youth – "You were always…the center. The sun. For Jane…and for me. Only for her you were a knight, a prince, an object of adoration. And for me..."

He swallowed, turned away, looking into the dark opening of their shelter, into the night.

"For me you were everything. And the only one to whom this…misunderstanding, this strangeness inside…it was drawn. Like a magnet. Since childhood. When you put on my cloak to play the evil wizard. When you saved me from the 'evil bush.' When you told your stories by the fire. When you returned from war, all scarred, and looked at me in the greenhouse as if I were a puzzle you'd finally solved..."

He turned, and now tears were rolling down his cheeks, leaving shiny tracks in the firelight.

"The painting…it was the only way to tell you. Not you, but the ideal in my head. To say that your heart, your bravery, your readiness to fight any dragon…that it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. That I admire you more than anyone. But I couldn't just come and say 'Mike, I painted you because you've driven me crazy since I was ten.' That would have sounded…ridiculous, shameful. You would have burned with shame for me. Or turned away. And I…I couldn't have borne that. So yes, I lied. Said it was from Jane, because her feelings were…right. Normal. Understandable. And mine..."

He spread his hands, and in that gesture was all his pain, all the years of loneliness and despair.

"My feelings were just another tentacle of the monster inside me. Another proof that I – am not like everyone else. And that I'm doomed to love someone who would never, never look at me the same way."

Will finished, and in the shelter hung silence, broken only by his choked sobs and the crackle of the fire. He stood hunched, trembling, having laid bare his soul before Mike with all its dark, painful, ‘wrong’ corners.

And Mike sat paralyzed. Each word stabbed him like a honed dagger, destroying all his notions of the past. Suddenly a thousand little things formed a single, blinding picture. That look in the garden after the power awakened, the timidity in the greenhouse. How Will listened to his stories as if each word were sacred. The jealousy at the ball, which wasn't of Will, but for him. The warm, sweet ache in his chest at the sight of his smile for others. The night in the cave, when the desire to hold him close was stronger than any reason.

He hadn't just not understood. He'd been blind. Deaf. Absorbed by his own duty, his youthful feelings for Jane, his ambitions. And Will…Will had loved him all this time. Silently. Without hope. Carried that love within himself like another curse, another scar.

And now, with this truth lying between them, huge and frightening, Mike didn't know what to say. He could only look at this person, this beautiful, broken, incredibly brave-stupid mage who had just given him his heart without even hoping for anything in return, and feel the world under his feet splitting into "before" and "after."

Will exhaled a choked, torn sound. He wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving dirty streaks on the coarse fabric, and swayed in place as if wounded. His eyes, full of tears and terror, darted, finding no anchor.

"Forget it," he whispered, voice broken, voiceless – "Forget everything I said. It's…it's delirium. From exhaustion…from all this. I didn't mean it, just..."

He took a step back, toward the exit, the darkness, as if wanting to run from his own words, from his bared heart.

"We'll pretend nothing happened. You…you'll leave, go back. Say you didn't find me. And that's it. Everything will be as before."

"As before?"

Mike's voice broke through not as a shout, but as a rough, animal roar that seemed to tear his throat. He jumped up so sharply his head spun. He didn't approach Will – he lunged at him, blocking the path of retreat, grabbing his shoulders with such force Will yelped in surprise.

"What 'as before'?" Mike shook him, and in his eyes, wide open, a real storm raged – pain, fury, despair, and something new, blinding and frightening. "As before, when I was a blind and deaf idiot? When I looked past you, thought about anything but what was in your soul? When you lived with this torture inside for years, and I didn't even guess?"

He let go of one shoulder to run a hand over his own face, and Mike saw his fingers tremble – not from anger – from shock, from shame.

"You say I didn't understand?" his voice became quiet again, but it was the quiet before an explosion, quiet full of cracks – "Yes, damn it, I didn't understand! I was the biggest fool in the whole kingdom! I saw your paintings, heard your voice, felt your pain, and all I could come up with – was talk about duty, about Jane, about a future that would send you to your grave!"

Mike grabbed Will's shoulders again, but now didn't shake him, just held him, like a drowning man clutching a rescue plank.

"You think I didn't feel anything? At that ball, when you danced with them, and looked at them, and smiled…Everything inside me twisted into such a knot I thought I'd burst. I thought it was jealousy because girls were dancing with you, not me. Thought it was disgust at your magic. Anything but the truth! And the truth..."

Mike fell silent, his breathing became fast and ragged. He looked into Will's green eyes, full of tears and fear, and in his own eyes stood such bottomless pain and remorse it seemed he was about to fall to his knees.

"The truth is I was afraid. Afraid of this…feeling. Of what you made me feel. Like in childhood, when I straightened your cap, and my fingers got stuck in your hair, and I didn't want to pull them away. Like when you shivered from cold, and I wanted to take you under my cloak and never let go. Like when you told me about stars, and I looked not at the sky, but at your lips, on which flickered reflections from the fire, how they…how they must be soft."

He spoke quickly, confusedly, words bursting out like from a breached dam, unfiltered, raw, childishly clumsy.

"I loved Jane, yes. But that love was…like for an icon, an ideal. And what I felt for you…it was always different: hotter, more…insane. It frightened me. Because you were my best friend. Because it's not allowed. Because…because I was a coward. A much bigger coward than you, with your tentacles and voices! You carried your truth inside like a cross, and I…I didn't even dare admit it to myself!"

Mike lowered his head, his forehead resting on Will's shoulder. His body shook with suppressed sobs.

"Forgive me. Forgive, forgive, forgive…For every time I looked away. For every time I didn't see. For every day you suffered alone, thinking your love was ugliness. It's not ugliness, Will. It's..."

He raised his head, and down his cheeks, over the rough, pale cheeks with scars, flowed tears. Real, hot, salty tears of a knight who never cried from pain or fear.

"It's the most beautiful thing that ever was in my miserable, stupid life. And if you try to take it all back now, if you say it was a mistake…I don't know what I'll do. I'll burn the whole kingdom to the ground that made you an outcast. I'll renounce my blessing, my sword, everything. I'll follow you into the deepest darkness, the most terrible void, anywhere. Only…only don't push me away. Don't make me pretend nothing happened."

Mike let go of his shoulders and grabbed his hands. His large, rough, scarred and calloused palms enveloped Will's slender, cold, white-lightning-marked fingers. He pressed them to his chest, right where the heart beat – wildly, desperately, ready to burst out.

"Feel it? It beats for you. All these years it beat only for you. I just…just couldn't read it."

Silence fell – ringing, crystalline, full of the meaning of words just spoken. Will stood motionless, his hands still held in Mike's palms, pressed to that wildly pounding heart. He looked at Mike – at this face, streaked with tears and twisted by such agonizing remorse and such naked hope, that his own heart, it seemed, stopped, then leaped in a jubilant gallop.

He saw not a knight. Not a paladin. He saw Mike. That boy with dark curls and freckles who once lifted him from the ground by the fountain. Only now in his eyes was no childish simplicity – there was adult, hard-won, all-consuming pain. And love. The very one Will didn't even dare pray for.

Mike saw in Will's green eyes confusion, shock, disbelief, and then…something melted. That glacial wall of despair and self-defense standing between them all these years cracked, and through it poured warm, living light. Tears welled up in Will's eyes again, but now they were different – not from pain, but from liberation.

Mike slowly, as if afraid to scare away the fragile miracle, lowered their joined hands. He didn't let go of Will's fingers, but now his palms were just a shell, protection, not a vise. He took a step forward. Will didn't retreat. He just looked, mesmerized, his lips, always so pressed together, slightly parted in a soundless question.

The distance between them shrank to centimeters. Mike could feel the warmth emanating from Will's body, mixed with the familiar coolness of his magic. He could see every wrinkle on his pale skin, every lash casting a shadow on his cheek, a tear-drop caught in the hollow above his lip, next to that very mole. The world narrowed to this face. To these eyes.

"May I...?" Mike whispered. His voice was so quiet and hoarse it was like the rustle of dry leaves. He wasn't asking permission for something specific. He was asking permission for everything. For destroying the last partition, for stepping over the line beyond which there was no return to former roles, former friendship.

Will didn't answer with words. He only slightly, almost imperceptibly, nodded. His eyes closed, long lashes falling on wet cheeks. It was a gesture of complete trust, complete surrender.

Mike let go of one of his hands to bring his own to Will's face. His fingers trembled. He, Sir Michael Wheeler, veteran of dozens of battles, trembled like a youth before his first duel. He touched Will's cheek, ran his thumb over the cheekbone, wiping away a tear. The skin under his fingers was amazingly soft and cool. He felt a slight shudder run through Will's body in response to that touch.

He leaned in slowly, giving time to recoil, change his mind, stop him. But Will remained motionless, only his breathing quickened, becoming ragged and warm on Mike's lips.

The first contact was not a kiss. It was a touch. Mike only lightly, almost weightlessly, touched his lips with his own. It was a timid, questioning connection. A flash of sensation struck him like an electric shock: Will's lips were cool, dry, a bit rough from wind and cold, and incredibly soft.

He felt Will shudder all over and freeze, as if afraid to move, to destroy the magic. Mike pulled back a millimeter to catch his breath, to make sure this wasn't a dream. He saw Will's eyes open, in them stood mute, reverent horror and expectation. And that expectation, that complete vulnerability broke the last remnants of his doubt.

He returned. This time not with a question, but with an affirmation.

The second kiss was no longer just a touch. It was a slow, thorough exploration. Mike pressed his lips to his lips a little firmer, feeling their shape, their pliancy. He led, but without pressure, with trembling care, as if holding the most fragile glass. He moved his lips – first barely noticeably, then more confidently, finding a rhythm that seemed the only right one. It was completely unlike with Jane – that was passion, play, youthful ardor. This was recognition. Homecoming. Each movement was a prayer, each touch – a vow.

And then Will responded.

At first it was an uncertain, almost timid reciprocal movement. His lips trembled under Mike's, tried to repeat the motion. Then more boldly. He began to move in response. His hands, until then hanging like whips, rose and clumsily clutched the folds of Mike's jacket. He was kissing for the first time in his life, and it was naive, unskilled, and infinitely beautiful. In this response was all his accumulated years of longing, all the fear, all the hope.

Mike felt something hot and sweet swell inside him. He parted his lips, just a little, allowing their breath to mix, and ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip – not as a demand, but as a tender question, an invitation. Will shuddered, and from his throat escaped a choked, lost sound, full of such shock and such consent that Mike's vision darkened.

This was no longer a kiss. It was merging.

The world ceased to exist. Gone were the cave's cold, the smell of smoke, the heavy burden of the past and vague horror of the future. Only they remained. A warm, humid vacuum created by intertwined lips, mingled breath, the thud of hearts beating in unison somewhere deep inside. Mike embraced Will, pressing him to himself with all his strength, absorbing every shuddering inhale, every nervous flutter of his lashes. He tasted – tears, salty and bitter, and beneath – the pure, unique taste of Will, which he now knew and which would forever remain for him the definition of happiness.

They kissed until breath failed, until lungs screamed for air. They parted lips almost simultaneously, but didn't pull away. Foreheads touched. Breath intertwined into a small cloud in the cold cave air. They stood, breathing heavily, pressed together, and Mike felt goosebumps run down his back, and tears stream down his cheeks again, but now they were tears of relief, absolute, unconditional joy.

He looked into the green eyes, now wide open and shining with such pure, mute amazement his heart clenched with tenderness.

"Wow," Will breathed out, and that one, simple, childish word meant more to Mike than all love poems ever written in human history.

Mike couldn't speak. He simply pulled Will to himself, hugged him again, not for a kiss, but just to feel, to be sure it wasn't a mirage. He buried his face in his neck, in the fluffy chestnut hair, and whispered there, into the warmth of his skin, choked, cracked:

"I love you. God, how I love you. All my life. Just…didn't know what to call it."

Will hugged him back, tightly, desperately, and his own voice sounded in his ear, full of tears and laughter at once:

"Idiot. Finally figured it out."

And they stood like that, in the center of their small, fragile world woven from pain, confession, and this first, infinitely tender kiss that erased all boundaries, burned all bridges, and left them just the two of them, on a clean, new page of a future where there was no place for betrayal, fear, and loneliness. Only them.

💫

Morning wasn't just morning. It was the first morning. The first morning of their world. Mike woke not from cold or anxiety. He woke from silence and warmth. Warmth that was not only in his chest, but beside him, along his whole body, where Will pressed against him.

He lay on his back, and Will slept, face buried in his shoulder, one arm thrown helplessly across his chest. Mike looked at the vault of their shelter, at the gaps between branches where gray-blue light of the new day broke through, and felt his heart fill with something so quiet and huge it had no name. It was happiness. Not ecstatic, not jubilant – deep, rooted like an old tree. Calm. His.

He carefully turned his head to look at the sleeper. Will's lashes, dark and fluffy, lay on bluish circles under his eyes. His lips, slightly parted, seemed now not pale, but pink, a bit swollen from yesterday's…Mike felt a surge of tenderness so sharp it hurt under his ribs. He slowly, so as not to wake him, leaned down and touched his lips to his forehead. Just pressed. Inhaled the scent of his skin, sleep, their shared night.

Will stirred, made an inarticulate sound and pressed closer. Mike allowed himself another minute, another one, just to lie and feel this miracle. Then duty, old and familiar but no longer oppressive, caring, knocked on his consciousness. They were in the Wild Lands. They were safe only within this shelter.

"Will," he whispered, running his fingers over his temple.

Will opened sleepy, hazy eyes. They focused on Mike, and slowly, like sun from behind a cloud, understanding dawned, then – a warm, sleepy smile. The very one Mike was so afraid to lose.

"Morning," Will croaked.

"Morning," Mike agreed, unable to hold back his own smile. He kissed him again, quickly, lightly, in farewell. "I need to scout the area. Check if we left tracks. You stay here, hide. And…be careful."

In his voice sounded a shadow of old anxiety, but now it was colored not by abstract duty, but by personal, burning concern. He didn't order. He asked.

Will nodded, his hand squeezing Mike's for a moment. "You too. Come back soon."

Mike went out of the shelter, and the world greeted him not with hostile cold, but with sparkling, crystalline freshness. The air smelled of pine needles, moss, and something sweetish, flowering in the distance. He walked through the forest, and every detail seemed incredibly beautiful to him. Dewdrops on spiderwebs, shimmering all rainbow colors. The trunk of an old oak, covered with patterned lichen resembling a map of unexplored lands. Even the cry of a lone crow sounded not ominous, just loud.

Mike was happy. Foolishly, recklessly, childishly happy. Inside him sang. Each step echoed yesterday's confession, yesterday's kiss. He remembered the trembling in Will's hands, the taste of his lips, the light in his eyes when he said ‘idiot.’ He walked and smiled to himself like a fool, not paying attention to direction, just checking the perimeter, enjoying freedom and that he now had a home. Not a place. A person.

He was about to turn back, to the cave, to Will, with a basket of imaginary mushrooms and a whole pile of tender words he'd thought up along the way.

And then he heard the scream.

Not a scream of horror. Not a scream of pain. A short, abrupt, surprised exclamation. As if a person stepped on something sharp or unexpectedly pricked himself. But Mike recognized that voice in every shade. It was Will.

Ice ran down his spine, instantly replacing all warmth and languor. His happiness shattered like a crystal ball against stone reality. Mike took off running, not thinking, not planning a route. He simply ran toward the sound, breaking branches, stumbling over roots, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat, hammering the same terrible rhythm: no-no-no-no.

He burst into a small clearing not far from their shelter – the very one where Will had gathered herbs the day before. And froze.

The picture he saw was forever etched in his consciousness, each stroke sharp and poisonously bright.

Will stood with his back to him, facing the forest edge. He was without his cloak, in just a light shirt, and his posture expressed not fear, but rather stunned wariness. He raised a hand, and on his palm flared a weak, protective blue glow.

And before him, in the shadow of trees, stood three figures in cloaks the color of rotten pine needles. Not soldiers, not knights. Their postures were strange, angular, and in their hands they held not bows or swords, but short, thick wands of dark, polished wood.

One of them, the foremost, raised his wand. Its tip lit up with a poisonous green, pulsating light – the very one, familiar to nausea, the light of alchemical "greeners," the kingdom's weapon against magic.

"Cease resistance, freak," came a muffled, impersonal voice from under the hood – "Orders are to deliver alive. But 'alive' is a flexible concept."

Will said something in response, his voice trembling with anger, but Mike didn't make out the words. All his attention was riveted to the wand, to that clot of green energy seething on its end.

And then everything happened too fast.

Will made a sharp hand motion, throwing forward a wave of blue, freezing light. But he was caught off guard, unprepared for a fight. The green clot from the wand shot toward him. It wasn't an arrow or a bullet. It was a clot of pure, corroding energy, like a lightning ball, but quiet and deadly.

It hit Will in the chest.

Not with a bang, but with a repulsive, wet squelch, as if spitting into mud. Will didn't even cry out. He just gasped, his body arching in an unnatural arc. The blue light on his hand went out, scattering into sparks. He was thrown back a couple of steps and fell to his knees, clutching his chest.

Mike saw through Will's fingers, through the thin fabric of his shirt, a crimson stain begin to spread. But not just crimson. Along its edges, where the skin met the magic, the blood seemed to... glow. Bright green, painful, unearthly glow. Those very ‘bright green bullets.’ They weren't a metaphor. They were reality. And they now sat in the chest of the one who was everything to him.

Time stopped for Mike. Sounds faded. Only vision remained, fixed on this picture: Will on his knees, curled up, with a chest burning green and red, and three faceless shadows approaching him with raised wands.

And then time jerked forward at a frantic speed, and nothing remained in Mike but white, all-crushing animal rage. There were flashes of pain, the crunch of bones under his fists, a roar – inhuman, tearing from his own chest, blinding bursts of golden light tearing through the green gloom of alchemical charges. He moved like an enraged demon, the paladin's blessing blazing in him not as a beacon, but as a white star of vengeance. He didn't remember how he broke the first wand, how he threw the second hunter against a rock with such force he went silent forever, how the third, trying to flee, tangled in his own feet and froze, impaled by his own weapon, which Mike threw with murderous accuracy.

It took minutes. Or seconds. His whole being was chained to a point in the clearing.

When the last groan faded in the forest silence, Mike was already running, stumbling, to where Will had fallen.

"No, no, no, no..."

He fell to his knees beside him, hands that just moments ago tore flesh now trembling, unable to touch. Will lay on his side, curled up, one arm still pressed to his chest. The shirt around was soaked with something terrible – not just blood, but a mix of crimson and that poisonous, glowing green. The glow pulsed faintly but steadily, like a second, alien heart, gnawing into his flesh. The smell was sweetish-sour, revolting – burnt flesh, ozone, and chemical bitterness.

"Will!" Mike tore off his own cloak, crumpled it into a ball, and with wild, uncontrolled force pressed it to the wound, trying to plug this horrible hole from which life and green poison seeped. "Hold on! Hold on, hear me!"

Under his palms, the fabric instantly became soaked with hot wetness. The golden light of his own magic, instinctively rushing to his hands to heal, met the green glow and…bounced off. As if the wound were poisoned with something that rejected the pure paladin's blessing. He felt his own power hiss and be extinguished, unable to do anything. Helplessness burned him hotter than any fire.

Will groaned. His eyes were closed, face pale as chalk, lips acquiring a bluish tint. He slowly opened his eyes: green, so familiar, now blurred with pain and a strange calm.

"M-Mike..." his voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

"Quiet! Don't speak!" Mike shouted, pressing on the wound, feeling something terrible and irreversible spreading inside under his fingers. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with sweat and dust, dripping onto Will's face. "I'll stop it. I must stop it! Everything will be all right, understand? Everything will be all right!"

Will weakly shook his head. He tried to raise his free hand, the scarred one, but it only twitched and fell. Mike caught it, squeezed it in his own bloodied palms. The hand was icy.

"Won't…work," Will whispered. Scarlet foam appeared on his lips. He coughed, and bright crimson blood splashed on his chin, its edges also shimmering with a green glow. "It's…poison. For magic. For…for the kind like mine. It's…eating me from inside."

"No!" Mike lunged, again and again trying to pour his power into him, but golden sparks only died, touching the green glow. He sobbed, loudly, inconsolably, like a child. "Don't say that! I'll save you! I'll find a way! I'll carry you..."

"Where?" Will quietly interrupted. In his eyes, through the pain, flickered a shadow of an old, bitter smile – "Home?"

That word, spoken like that, cut off Mike's breath. He froze, looking into those fading green eyes, and everything inside him collapsed. Home. They had just found a home. In each other. And it was destroyed in a second.

"Yesterday..." Will exhaled, and his breath became shorter, more ragged – "Yesterday was…good. Better than…my whole life."

"Not yesterday!" Mike cried, pressing his cold hand to his cheek – "Today! Tomorrow! Everything will be. We just started! Do you hear? We just started!"

But Will, it seemed, no longer heard. His gaze became unseeing, he looked somewhere past Mike, at the gray sky between branches. "Pity…the painting…don't forget it..." he coughed again, and this time the cough was long, agonizing, wrenching. When it subsided, Will's voice became even quieter, barely distinguishable. "You…found me…that's…what matters."

"No, what matters is you!" Mike wept, pressing his forehead to Will's cold forehead – "You! Only you! Will, please…please, don't go. Don't leave me alone. I won't survive this."

Will slowly, with incredible effort, shifted his gaze to him. In his pupils still glimmered a spark – the very one that always burned for Mike. "Loved…you…always..."

And that simple, terrible statement, spoken almost in a whisper, overflowed the cup. Mike leaned down and kissed him. Not passionately, not tenderly – desperately. As if with his breath, his life, his soul he could draw the poison out of him, breathe strength into him. He kissed his cold, bloodied lips, tasting copper, iron, and a sweetish bitterness, kissed his cheeks, his closed eyelids, his forehead covered in cold sweat.

"Me too," he whispered between kisses, between sobs – "I loved you too, always. Forgive me. Forgive me for being so late. For not protecting you."

Will no longer answered. His body, until then tense with pain, gradually went limp in Mike's arms. The trembling ceased. Breathing became barely perceptible, shallow, like a light ripple on water. The green glow on his chest went out, leaving behind only a terrible, black-edged wound and bright crimson, now non-glowing blood, seeping slower and slower.

Mike held him, rocked him in his arms like a child, pressing him to himself, trying to warm him with his own warmth, which could no longer change anything. He spoke to him – incoherent words of love, promises, curses to those who did this, vows of vengeance. But Will no longer heard.

The last breath was a quiet, barely noticeable exhale. The chest under Mike's hand no longer rose. The hand he squeezed finally went limp, becoming lifelessly heavy.

Silence.

It crashed down on the clearing, oppressive, absolute, more terrible than any scream. Even the wind in the leaves died down. Mike sat, petrified, unbelieving. He shook Will by the shoulder, weakly, then harder.

"Will? Will, look at me. Wake up. This isn't funny."

Only his own voice, broken and pitiful, answered him echoed from the rocks. He pressed his ear to his chest. Nothing. Only freezing silence and cold beginning to seep from within.

Then a sound tore from him that had nothing human in it. Long, piercing, full of such unbearable, cosmic pain that it seemed the very sky should crack from it. He pressed the lifeless body to himself, buried his face in his cold, blood-matted hair and howled like a wounded beast that had lost everything.

They had just started. They had just found each other. They had only had time to say "I love you" aloud once. And then the world, cruel, unjust, cowardly world, took it from them. Forever.

And Mike remained sitting on the cold ground, in a puddle of blood – his own and Will's, rocking in his arms the most precious thing he had ever had, and understanding that he had just lost not just a loved one. He had lost his light, his home, his future. And only icy emptiness, guilt, and a mute question from which his vision darkened remained: how to live on?

💫

He returned to Hawkins not as a hero, and not as a fugitive. He returned as a ghost. On the fifth day after that morning when the world ceased to have colors and meaning, Blizzard, tired and dejected, carried him out of the Wild Lands thicket onto the familiar road. Mike didn't even guide him – the horse found the way home himself.

He didn't sneak in secretly. He rode through the main gates at dawn, when the guards were still rubbing their eyes. They recognized him – filthy, bearded, with a face on which not an expression was frozen, but the absence of any expression. On his mail, his jacket, even in his tangled black curls, brown, unwashed blood had dried and grayed with dust. Not all – his own. He looked at no one. He simply rode, and people parted before him, and in their whispers were neither greetings nor curses – only horror.

Mike left Blizzard in the courtyard without a backward glance and went into the castle. His steps echoed dully in the empty corridors. He went where his feet led, without thinking. And his feet led him to the old greenhouse.

It still smelled of earth and dampness. But not ozone. An incredible silence pressed on his ears. He stood amidst neglected plants and looked at the tub with the fern, from which Will once broke off frost-covered leaves. He was here – alive, speaking, with those blue sparks on his fingers. Saw him smile his sad, understanding smile. "You're acting like a caveman. Literally. 'Mine, don't touch.' The voice sounded in memory so clearly Mike physically flinched and grabbed the cold rim of the tub to keep from falling.

Mike went up to his tower. The door was sealed with the Council's wax seal. Mike didn't break it. He simply tore the door off its hinges with one effort, and the dry wood gave way with a crack. The seal fell and shattered.

The room was ransacked by investigators. Overturned furniture, torn canvases, scattered pigments. But on an easel by the window, covered with cloth, stood it. That one. The painting with the knight and the dragon. They, apparently, deemed it insufficient evidence.

Mike approached and pulled off the cover. The paints shone in the morning light. The knight, so like him, fought a dragon of blue light and darkness. His fearlessness. His devotion. All that Will admired. All that he loved. And all that he never got to see.

Mike reached out, touched the canvas where the knight's cheek was. Then jerked his hand back as if burned. He rolled the painting into a tight roll, carefully, tenderly, as if a living person, and left.

He was walking down the corridor, pressing the roll to his chest, when he heard quick footsteps. Before him, breathless, in a simple dress, without retinue, appeared Jane. Her face was pale, eyes – huge and full of such compassion and such guilt that Mike felt physically sick.

"Mike…My God, what happened to you? Where have you been? We thought..." she fell silent, seeing his eyes. In them was nothing – no reproach, no pain she might have expected. Only emptiness. Bottomless, icy emptiness of scorched earth.

"He's dead," Mike said simply. His voice was even, monotone, like a learned line from a prayer he no longer believed in.

Jane froze. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Will...?"

"Hunters. Green fire. In the forest," each word came with effort, as if pulling red-hot nails from himself.

Tears burst from Jane's eyes. "No…Oh no, Mike…I…I didn't want…I tried to warn…I"

"I know," he interrupted her. Not rudely, just stating a fact. "He told me. You saved his life then. And now…now there's no one to save."

He saw her shudder with sobs, but could feel neither pity nor comfort. His ability to feel anything but all-consuming emptiness had died there, on the clearing.

"What…what will you do now?" she whispered, wiping her face.

Mike looked at the roll in his hands. Then raised his eyes somewhere over her shoulder, to the end of the corridor where they once ran, laughing, the three of them.

"I'm leaving," he said – "I'm not here."

"Where? Mike, you're a knight, you..."

"I'm nothing," his voice finally trembled, the first, terrible crack showing through – "I'm not a knight, not a paladin. I'm just a man who was too late. For a whole lifetime."

He walked past her, heading for the castle exit, for the gates beyond which there was nothing, but here there was nothing left either.

"Mike, wait!" she called after him, her voice breaking. "Forgive me!"

He stopped but didn't turn. "There's no one to forgive, Jane. And nothing. We all just played our roles. You – the princess. He – the sorcerer. I – the knight. And we all lost."

And Mike walked on. His steps echoed in the emptied corridor. Jane remained standing, crying alone, the future queen of a broken kingdom that had lost not only its best mage, but also the soul of its best knight.