The town sat nestled in the valley like an afterthought—small, weathered, and unremarkable. The wooden buildings leaned faintly with age, their beams faded from years of sun and salt-laden winds. The streets were dirt-packed and uneven, scattered with shallow ruts left by passing carts, the occasional clop of hooves punctuating the stillness. The sharp scent of earth and wood clung to the air, mingling with a faint tang of metal from the far-off blacksmith’s forge.

  To Seraphine, it looked almost peaceful. Almost like safety. But the smallness of the town, the quiet of its routine, felt more like a cage than a refuge. It was a place where one could disappear, but where the weight of forgotten lives pressed in like the heavy, silent air of an abandoned room.

  The low stone wall surrounding the outskirts was no true fortification, but it was still something—something that marked the line between the wilderness and civilization. The stone was worn, pocked with years of rain and frost, yet it stood—quiet, unyielding.

  Her eyes traced the shape of the rooftops, the narrow chimney stacks, the flickering lanterns hung beside inn doors, casting faint glimmers of light against the growing dusk. She should have felt relief at the sight of it. At the walls that promised warmth and food and respite from the road. But instead, she felt her heart tighten, a cold shadow settling in her chest.

  All she felt was dread. The dread of what came next. The dread of the decision that had already been made.

  They walked the last stretch in silence, their footsteps muffled by the dust of the road. It was as if the world had gone still around them, leaving only the rhythm of their steps to fill the empty space.

  Her eyes flicked to Shadow when the inn came into view—a modest structure with thick oak beams and shuttered windows. A few lanterns glowed faintly from inside, casting long shadows across the doorframe. His face was unreadable, expressionless beneath the hood he’d drawn up, the pale outline of his jaw stark against the dark fabric.

  The doors of the inn seemed to swing open of their own accord, an invitation into a world that already felt too familiar.

  When they reached the door, he didn’t look at her. He simply pushed it open and walked inside without a word, his boots scraping softly against the threshold, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

  The common room was crowded but not rowdy. A low fire smoldered in the stone hearth, its amber light flickering and dancing across the walls. The scent of roasting meat and spiced wine clung to the air, mingling with the musty tang of wood and soot. A few tired travelers sat hunched over their meals, boots dusty from the road, voices low with exhaustion, their faces drawn and hollow from too many nights on the trail.

  Seraphine lingered a step behind as Shadow approached the innkeeper. She didn’t follow him right away. Didn’t want to. She told herself she was simply taking in her surroundings, her gaze drifting idly over the room. The creak of floorboards underfoot, the clink of tankards, the faint rustle of fabric—all of it seemed to close in around her.

  In truth, she just didn’t want to watch the impersonal exchange of coin for a room. Didn’t want to see how easily he arranged a place for her to sleep, as though it was nothing more than a transaction. As though she was already a ghost to him. As though it was all part of the plan.

  He returned to her with a small brass key in his gloved hand, offering it with neither flourish nor warmth. His fingers, wrapped tightly in the rough leather of his gloves, seemed colder than usual.

  “Up the stairs,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of all familiarity. It was flat, efficient, distant. Like she was already gone.

  She took the key from his hand without a word, her fingers brushing his gloved palm, the touch fleeting, cold. Her chest tightened as she turned away, the weight of his silence settling heavily between them.

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  The room was small, but not unpleasant. The bed was narrow, the wool blanket freshly folded but already creased, the sheets soft but stiff in a way that reminded her of how long she’d been on the road. The window was small, too small, with a single pane of glass that rattled faintly when the wind kicked up outside. It was latched tight against the chill, though the faint scent of wet earth and damp leaves still managed to slip through the cracks.

  The wooden beams were slightly crooked, making the entire space feel off-kilter, as if the walls themselves were leaning in, bearing down on her.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, running her fingers lightly over the blanket, tracing the texture of the wool, feeling the roughness beneath her fingertips. Her pack sat slumped by the door where she had dropped it, its contents all but forgotten. She didn’t move to unpack it.

  Instead, she stared at the wall, unmoving. Her eyes fixed on the faded pattern of the wallpaper, the small cracks in the plaster, the dust gathering in the corners. It was a blank canvas. Empty. Still.

  She told herself she was simply resting. But really, she was waiting. Waiting for something she couldn’t name. And she hated herself for it.

  When she finally ventured back downstairs, she found him at the bar, leaning with his forearms braced against the counter. His head was angled slightly downward, the shadows from the fire casting lines across his face. His voice was low enough that she couldn’t make out the words, but she knew. She knew what he was asking.

  The knot in her stomach tightened. She swallowed, the bitter taste of metal rising in her throat. Transport. He was arranging transport.

  For her. To send her back.

  Her hands curled into fists at her sides. The muscles in her legs tensed, ready to move, but she forced herself to stay still. She took a slow, deliberate breath and forced her feet forward. Each step measured. Each step harder than the last. She made herself walk toward him, as though she hadn’t noticed, as though this was all part of some unspoken agreement.

  By the time she reached him, he was finishing the exchange—sealing it with a low nod, his voice a murmur too quiet for her to catch. His eyes met hers, impassive, flat, unreadable.

  “It’s done,” he said quietly. The words were as sharp and clean as a severing blade. He might as well have been speaking of nothing at all.

  Her throat tightened faintly, but she didn’t let it show. She didn’t let herself break.

  She lifted a brow faintly, her voice light with detached indifference, though the words tasted like ash in her mouth. “That eager to be rid of me, hmm?” she teased coolly, as though it was a game. As though it didn’t cut her to the bone.

  His eyes flickered, just for a second. But it was only a flicker. The warmth didn’t return. It had never been there.

  She could feel the distance in him—the deliberate, surgical precision of it. It wasn’t indifference. It was something colder, something crueler. Something calculated. A carving away of himself, piece by piece, before she could. Before she could take anything more from him.

  They sat in silence at the table, the food between them as untouched as their words. He didn’t ask if she was hungry. She didn’t ask why he wasn’t eating.

  When the trader approached the table with a rough nod, confirming the carriage would leave at dawn, Seraphine merely offered him a polite smile, one that felt as hollow as the room around them. She kept it perfectly calm. Perfectly pleasant. Perfectly distant.

  By the time they retreated to the room, the distance between them was solid stone. There was no room for her to reach out anymore, no warmth to try to salvage. She had crossed the line he had drawn, and she knew it.

  He sat near the window, shoulders drawn into his usual defensive posture, his gaze turned toward the open shutters. He didn’t remove his gloves. Didn’t remove his boots. Didn’t look at her.

  Seraphine said nothing as she crossed the room. Nothing as she removed her boots and coat. Nothing as she sat on the edge of the bed, her back stiff, her fingers methodically unfastening the small clasps at her wrist.

  The silence was deafening. Unyielding. It pressed in from all sides.

  She sat on the edge of the bed for too long, her back to him. Her fingers were still and rigid in her lap. She stared at the floor, not wanting to give in. Not wanting to let herself want him any more than she already did.

  Slowly, she turned. Just enough to look at him over her shoulder, the action slow and deliberate. Her breath caught in her throat as she searched his face, looking for some crack in the stone, some flicker of warmth, some sign that the man she had known—who had once lingered too close, who had whispered into her hair—was still somewhere in the depths of that guarded expression.

  He was only a shadow. A breath of someone already leaving. Already gone.