"Here."
Yen held out a folded paper lily. It was clumsy, edges slightly uneven, the creases a bit too sharp in places—but it was his. Not Colla's. Not one made by a servant under whispered instructions. He'd folded it himself, bent over a table with furrowed brows and ink-stained fingers, tongue caught between his teeth as he tried to remember how Lily had once done it for him years ago.
It was summer then. A golden, slow-breathing kind of day. The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting long shadows across the field where the breeze stirred the grass in sleepy waves. The air tasted of warm petals and ripe fruit, thick with that dreamy weight only midsummer afternoons can carry—like time itself had settled down for a nap.
Yen had grown quieter by then. Less of the arrogant boy Arkon used to drag behind him like a stubborn shadow. But he still hadn't quite learned how to smile. Not really. That crooked, too-sharp grin still clung to him like a habit, like a scar he didn't know he had. It tugged up one side of his mouth awkwardly, never reaching his eyes. Lily teased him for it often—gently, always—but each time, he'd flush and scratch at his neck like he was trying to claw the embarrassment out of his skin.
He was growing into himself, slowly. His limbs no longer too long for his body, his voice steadier now. His features had begun to carve themselves out—his jaw squaring, his nose straightening, eyes sharper under his thick lashes. Not quite a man, no longer a boy. That strange, in-between awkwardness clung to him like dew—softening the hard lines, making him seem younger when he frowned and older when he didn't.
Lily took the paper flower carefully, turning it between her fingers with a grin that bloomed like spring. "Thank you, Yen."
She looked at it a moment longer, then tilted her head. "But seriously… why do you always wear those thick robes? It's summer. Aren't you melting in there?"
He stiffened—just barely, like a gust had passed through him. A flicker crossed his golden eyes, quick and unreadable.
And then, wordless, he raised one sleeve.
Scars.
Dozens.
Not clean or purposeful like a soldier's pride—no. These were chaotic. Faint, silvery lines crisscrossing with angry welts and jagged ridges, some old and pale, others pink and fresh. They sprawled like roots across his arm. Ugly truths that had no poetry in them.
Lily froze.
Her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her heart, and for a moment, all she could hear was the soft rustle of wind brushing the tall grass.
He let the sleeve fall.
"I didn't want to keep secrets from you," he murmured, eyes dropping to his feet. "I was gonna tell you. Just… not yet."
The silence between them widened like the field around them. Heavy. Sun-warmed and full of all the things neither of them knew how to say.
Then he held out his hand.
Palm open. A peace offering. A bridge between whatever had cracked.
"I don't want you to think I'm hiding anything."
She hesitated. Guilt creased her brow, subtle and sharp.
"I—I didn't mean to pry. I didn't know it was—"
But before she could stumble further, he took her hand anyway, wrapping his fingers gently around hers and tucking them into the sleeve with his.
"It's from training," he said, quieter now. "It's… expected. Of me."
His gaze met hers. Sunlight caught in his irises, making them glint like molten coin. Crimson and gold, their eyes locked—like fire and blood, dawn and dusk.
And for a heartbeat, the world hushed.
They didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Then both looked away, heat blooming across their cheeks like a shared secret.
But he didn't let go.
And Lily… she stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough that their robes brushed and she could feel his warmth against her skin.
That was the kind of love they had, back then.
Soft. Awkward. Beautiful.
-----
Time dragged forward, slow and merciless.
He was nearly eighteen now.
Taller. Shoulders squared by sword drills and expectations. His voice deeper, his gait more assured. There was something regal in the way he stood now, something dangerous in the set of his jaw. The fire in him had sharpened. Refined. But not yet fully tamed.
And still—there was that spark of defiance that refused to die.
He smacked Arkon across the back between the shoulder blades, hard enough to make the knight grunt and stagger.
"The hell was that for?" Arkon snapped, spinning with a scowl.
Yen shrugged, tone flat as lake water. "For looking dumb."
Before Arkon could land a reply—or a fist—a sharp slap cracked across Yen's cheek.
He blinked.
Not from pain. From surprise.
"Lily?" he asked, brows lifted slightly in startled confusion.
She didn't say a word.
She just threw herself into him, arms locking tight around his waist, burying her face in his chest.
The knights nearby turned away with uncomfortable grace, suddenly fascinated with clouds and grass. Arkon made an exaggerated gagging noise and trudged off, muttering profanities—but not before stealing one last glance over his shoulder.
Yen blinked again, slower this time. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure—until she began to sob.
"Lily?" His voice cracked at the edges, pitched higher in panic. "Are you—did something happen?"
Her head shook against him, braid brushing his collar.
"You're leaving," she whispered, her words ragged, broken by hiccups. "Your first war."
His hands finally settled on her back—one splayed between her shoulder blades, the other tangled in her braid.
For a long breath, he didn't answer.
He just stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Something deeper. Something older than either of them deserved to carry.
Then—softly—he laughed.
It was quiet and rough, the kind of laugh someone forgets they're allowed to make. It sounded out of place, like laughter at a funeral. But it was real.
He brushed her tears away with the pad of his thumb and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.
"I'll come back," he said. "Alive."
And then—gentler than she'd ever seen him—he took her hand and pressed it to his cheek, eyes fluttering closed like he needed her touch more than he needed his sword.
She sniffed.
And smiled.
It was shaky. Wet. But it held.
Then, without warning, she rose onto her toes and tugged him down by the collar.
She kissed him.
Just a quick press of lips.
But it lingered.
And when she pulled away, he was frozen—lips parted, eyes wide. His whole body stilled like he was afraid if he moved, the moment would shatter.
Their cheeks flushed together in synchronized horror.
She stepped back first, hands flailing to tug at her sleeves.
"B-bring back… flowers!" she blurted, voice an octave too high.
And then she ran.
Braids flying, robes flapping, she darted through the grass like she could outrun the blush burning across her face.
Yen stood there, blinking after her.
Then—slowly—his grin bloomed.
A stupid, toothy grin.
"…Cute."
He didn't move. Didn't chase. Just watched the path she took like he wanted to memorize it forever.
"Disgusting," came Arkon's voice behind him, closer now.
Yen startled, then groaned. "How long were you standing there?"
"Long enough," Arkon muttered, pretending to retch. "We've been watching you two trip over each other for years. Why kiss only now? What was that even supposed to be?"
Yen didn't answer.
He clapped Arkon's back again—harder—but his eyes never left the horizon.
The path Lily had taken.
She didn't know.
This wasn't his first war.