Chapter 12 Oct 7, 2025 The sky was bruised with stars that night. Not soft or romantic-just endless and sharp, like it might slice open if you stared too long. Mira didn't mean to find him. She was just walking. Just trying to stop thinking. Her boots echoed faintly against the quiet stone halls, her breath rising in puffs that disappeared too fast. She hadn't expected to see anyone else awake, especially not him. But there he was-on the observation deck, alone. Bastian sat with one leg dangling over the edge, the other bent, bottle in hand. His knuckles were raw, split at the skin like something had fought back. Maybe a wall. Maybe himself. His shoulders were hunched, his profile cut harsh against the moonlight, and the wind tossed his hair like it was daring her to speak. Mira stopped at the doorway. "You're supposed to drink the wine, not punch it." He didn't look at her. Just tipped the bottle back, swallowed, and kept staring out at the mountains like they owed him an answer. The silence was thick, and heavier than she expected. It pressed on her chest. "Should I leave?" she asked after a pause, unsure if she wanted a yes or a no. His voice came low, rough. "You won't." Not a question. Not a request. Just fact. Mira walked over anyway, slow and quiet. The stone beneath her boots was cold. She sat beside him, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his arm. The distance between them wasn't wide, but it felt like a canyon. Silence stretched. Not tense. Not angry. Just...waiting. "I wasn't looking for you," she said finally, voice soft. "I know." "But I saw the blood, and... well. Healers don't ignore bleeding things." "Not all wounds want to be healed." She looked sideways at him. "Is that your poetic way of saying you're fine?" "It's my realistic way of saying I'm not." "Hard to tell the difference when you're brooding under starlight." "Is that what you think this is?" His eyes finally flicked to hers. "Brooding?" She shrugged. "You've got the blood, the wine, the tragic gaze into the void. All you're missing is a monologue and a tragic song." Bastian exhaled a sound that might've been a laugh. Or a sigh. He looked down at his hands like they weren't his. The scabs on his knuckles were fresh. "I was raised to win." "I figured." "No. Not just win. Dominate. Crush. Leave no weakness." Mira stayed quiet. Let him speak. Let him peel the edges off whatever armor he wore when the sun was up. It felt like watching a sword unforge itself. "My father didn't believe in softness," Bastian muttered. "Said it made you slow. Said it killed you faster than any blade." "And you believed him?" "I didn't have a choice." His voice caught on something there. Maybe grief. Maybe rage. Maybe both. The bottle tipped again. Half-full now. Mira watched his jaw tighten with each sip, like every drop dragged something up from his chest that didn't want to come out. There were shadows in his eyes she couldn't name, but they echoed something in her. "I wasn't supposed to feel anything," he muttered. "And then I met a girl with a dragon who hated me." "Liorith has taste." Bastian didn't smile, but his eyes flickered. "She's not the only one." Mira hesitated. Then, "I was raised near the coast. In a hall of healers. We patched up fishermen, travelers, anyone too stubborn to die quietly." Her voice wasn't bitter, but it wasn't untouched either. She had her own ghosts. Her own scars. He glanced at her. Said nothing. But he listened. That alone felt heavier than words. No interruptions. No mocking. Just listening, like she mattered. "I wanted to save people," she went on, voice softer now. "Not fight. But I came here because dragons don't bond to those who stand still. And I couldn't let Liorith go." Bastian nodded slowly. "She chose you." "No," Mira said. "We chose each other." The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was full. Heavy with things neither of them had said before. The bottle sat between them like a truce. Not warm, not inviting, but not hostile either. "Do you regret it?" he asked. "Choosing her?" "Choosing this." Mira stared out at the black peaks. "No. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Because it means I'm still here." Her fingers dug into the seam of her trousers, grounding herself. The pain was a reminder. Of survival. Of choice. His shoulders dropped. She reached out, slow and unassuming, and touched his arm-just above the wrist. His skin was warm. Tense. Like it hadn't been touched gently in years. Her fingers didn't press. They just stayed, steady. "You don't have to carry everything alone," she said. Bastian turned, his face close. Closer than she expected. His breath brushed her cheek-hot, careful, unsure. For a second, she thought he might close the space between them. Thought she might let him. Her pulse was deafening. His lips parted. There was a breath between them, a heartbeat, a choice. And then-he pulled back. And before she could ask what that meant-before she could grab his sleeve, demand he stop running-he was gone, disappearing into the dark.