Days had passed and the chaos of The Dread felt like a distant memory as we retreated into the serenity of Lennon's cottage. We didn't delve into the darkness of what had transpired in the alley that day, the shadows of that place lingering in the silence between us like a ghostly presence. I had kept the worst of it to myself, the cruel words and twisted intentions of those males locked away in a secret compartment of my heart. I just wanted to move on—to leave the shadows of that day behind, to shake off the lingering echoes of pain and fear, and to forge a new path forward, one that was lit by the warmth of Lennon's presence and the gentle rhythm of Ozzy's wings. Nestled deep within the forest, close enough to the cliffs to hear the ocean, the cottage was surrounded by nature's whispers—the rustling of leaves, the gentle hum of insects, and the soft calls of birds. It was as if the world outside had faded away, leaving just the two of us in this simple peaceful haven. We spent our days in quiet companionship, any tension between us softening as we found solace in the simple pleasures of life. We spent most days soaring through the skies on the back of Ozzy, the wind whipping through my hair as we danced among the clouds. Lennon often flew by our side, his wings beating in perfect synchrony with Ozzy's, their movements a testament to the deep bond that had formed between us. Numariya stretched out before us, a vast and wondrous tapestry of rolling hills and sparkling lakes, and we reveled in the beauty of it all, our hearts full of laughter and our souls full of wonder. We shared meals by the fire, the scent of pine and earth mingling with the rich aromas of simple meals sourced mostly from the small garden. Laughter became more frequent, our conversations no longer tinged with the awkwardness of unfamiliarity. We had fallen into a routine that felt surprisingly natural. I found myself picking up the slack where I could—tidying up the small messes that Lennon tended to overlook, preparing meals when he was too lost in thought to remember to eat, and tending the garden had become a sort of meditation for me. He, in turn, seemed to sense when I needed a moment of quiet or when a touch on my shoulder would be more reassuring than words. There was an unspoken understanding between us now, a bond that had strengthened in the aftermath of shared trauma. Each day, we grew more comfortable with each other, the lingering hesitations and uncertainties gradually melting away. The distance that once separated us had lessened. It was as though the cottage itself had become a part of us, its rhythm merging with ours. As the days passed, Lennon took on the task of caring for Ozzy with a dedication that bordered on devotion. He spent days building a quaint and functional stable for the pegasus, its wooden beams and thatched roof blending seamlessly into the surrounding landscape. The stable was a testament to Lennon's skill and craftsmanship, its every detail carefully considered to ensure Ozzy's comfort and well-being. From the soft, dry bedding that lined the stall to the intricate carvings that adorned the door, every aspect of the stable seemed to whisper of Lennon's love and respect for the majestic creature. As I watched him work, his hands moving with a quiet confidence as he hammered and sawed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the depth of his devotion. He was a true guardian, a protector of the innocent and the wild, and Ozzy was lucky to have him by his side, as was I. The days passed in a gentle blur, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of peace. No memories had returned, but I was slowly becoming comfortable with the possibility that they might never come back. Despite the unknowns that still loomed ahead, there was comfort in this quiet existence we had carved out for ourselves. Watching Lennon's stoic exterior begin to crack, bit by bit, was like witnessing the sun breaking through a heavy cloud cover. At first, it was just small things—a quirk of his lips when I said something that amused him, or the way his eyes would crinkle slightly at the corners, betraying his hidden mirth. But as the days passed, those moments grew more frequent, more genuine, and I found myself seeking them out, savoring each one. There was something almost boyish in the way he'd let his guard down, like he was rediscovering a part of himself he'd long buried. His smile—rare and fleeting at first—became more frequent, and with each one, I felt something warm unfurl in my chest. It wasn't just the way his lips curved, or the slight dimple that appeared in his cheek, but the way his entire face softened, the usual sharpness of his features giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. It was a smile that reached his eyes, turning them from cold, guarded steel to something warmer, more inviting. And when he laughed—truly laughed, the sound rich and deep—it was as if the world itself brightened. His laughter had a way of chasing away the shadows, filling the space between us with a lightness I hadn't realized I'd been missing. It was in those moments, when he let go of his carefully constructed walls, that I glimpsed the man beneath the warrior, the one who could be silly and playful, who could tease and be teased in return. I found myself smiling more in his presence, my heart warming at the sight of his grin. It was a warmth that spread through me, easing the tension that had settled in my bones since the day we'd met. Seeing this side of him—this softer, more human side—made me feel closer to him in ways I hadn't expected. It was a reminder that even the strongest, most stoic individuals had their moments of vulnerability, and those moments made them all the more beautiful. Every morning, without fail, Lennon would rise before the first light of dawn had fully kissed the horizon. The sound of his quiet footsteps across the wooden floor was the only thing that stirred me from the last dregs of sleep. I'd hear the creak of the old window as he pushed it open, letting the cool ocean breeze drift into the cottage, carrying with it the scent of salt and distant pine. The gentle caress of that breeze would sweep through the room, rustling the curtains and brushing against my skin, a soft reminder that another day had begun. After opening the window, he would move to the wood-burning stove, kneeling down to stoke the embers from the night before. The crackle of new logs catching fire was a comforting sound, one that spoke of warmth and safety. As the flames grew, their heat slowly spread through the cottage, chasing away the chill of the morning ocean mist. Then came the familiar clink of the ceramic french press, the earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air, mingling with the scent of the sea. It was a scent that had become synonymous with comfort, with mornings spent in the quiet intimacy of the cottage. I would stretch beneath the heavy blankets, a contented yawn escaping me as I lazily reached for the cup he offered. He would always hand me my coffee with a small, knowing smile, as if he could read the way my body melted into the morning routine, the way the warmth of the cup in my hands chased away the last remnants of sleep. I'd curl my fingers around it, feeling the heat seep into my palms as I sat up in his bed, the sheets pooling around my waist. The first sip was always the best, rich and bitter, smoothed with cream, warming me from the inside out. Then he would move to the chaise lounge by the window, the one that overlooked the ocean and the mist-shrouded cliffs beyond. He'd settle into it with a quiet sigh, as if the weight of whatever had been on his mind eased the moment he sank into those soft cushions. Sometimes, he'd reach for the book he'd been reading, the well-worn pages cradled in his hands as he lost himself in its world, his brow occasionally furrowing in concentration. Other times, his journal and quill in hand, he would sit for hours, lost in thought, as his pen danced across the page with a fervor that seemed to match the intensity of his gaze. I was mesmerized by the way his brow would furrow in concentration, his lips pursed in a silent deliberation. He wrote with a passion that seemed to consume him, his thoughts pouring out onto the page in a torrent of ink and emotion. As I sipped my coffee, I'd watch him exist with a practiced ease, his every action a part of the rhythm we'd fallen into. The sight of him, framed by the morning light streaming through the window, filled me with a quiet contentment. This was our morning ritual, one that had become as natural as breathing. And in those moments, everything felt right in the world. But it was when he turned to me, his eyes softening as he spoke, that I felt closest to him. On those mornings, he'd tell me about the dreams he'd had the night before. His voice would be low and rough from sleep, carrying a warmth that wrapped around me like a blanket. Sometimes, his dreams were vivid tales of distant lands and ancient battles, of places and characters that existed only in the depths of his mind. Other times, they were simpler, more personal, dreams that spoke of his fears and hopes, the kind that left a lingering shadow in his eyes. As he spoke, I'd listen intently, savoring the way he shared these pieces of himself with me. There was a vulnerability in those moments, a side of him that he didn't show to anyone else. It made me feel special, knowing that he trusted me with these glimpses into his soul. And as I watched him, the morning light casting soft shadows across his face, I couldn't help but feel a deep affection for this male Sidhe who had slowly become my anchor in this unpredictable world. That morning, as I lay nestled beneath the blankets, savoring the warmth of the bed and the comfort of my coffee, I watched him from across the room. He sat in the chaise lounge, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the sky met the sea. The usual calm in his expression was tinged with something heavier, something that pulled at the corners of his mouth and deepened the shadows beneath his eyes. For a long while, he said nothing, just gazed out the window as if searching for answers in the endless stretch of water and sky. I could feel the tension in the air, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us like a thick mist. Finally, he turned to me, his gaze locking onto mine, and the somberness in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine."I got word from Thadeus about taking you to Anahate," he said, his voice low, each word deliberate. "You leave in a week."There was no mistaking the heaviness in his tone, the way his voice almost cracked around the edges. It wasn't just the thought of sending me away—it was the realization that I would be gone, and that he would be left behind. The depth of his sadness struck me like a physical blow, a realization that this man, who had been my constant, my protector, was already mourning the distance that would soon separate us. He looked at me then, his eyes filled with an emotion I couldn't quite name, something that seemed to pulse with the same rhythm as my own heartbeat. It was as if he wanted to say more, to reach out and close the space between us, but the words caught in his throat, trapped by whatever walls he still kept around his heart. And in that moment, I felt the sharp sting of my own sadness, a gnawing ache that I hadn't expected. The idea of leaving this place, leaving him, was like tearing out a piece of myself. The thought of being away from the steady presence that had become so crucial to my sense of safety felt like stepping into the unknown all over again."I'll miss you," I wanted to say, but the words were lost somewhere deep inside me, buried beneath the fear and uncertainty of what the future held.Instead, I just nodded, the motion small and barely perceptible, yet it felt like the most difficult thing I had ever done. His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, and I could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between holding on and letting go. And though he didn't say it, I could hear the unspoken words, feel the silent plea that echoed in the space between us: Don't go. His eyes clouded with the weight of emotions he was trying so hard to suppress as he spoke, his voice low and carefully measured."He invited us to the monthly Visu Choir Full Moon performance tonight," he said, his words almost too quiet for the room. I could see the sadness etched into the lines of his face, the way his mouth tightened as if each word was a struggle to release. "It's something you should see before you go." He paused, swallowing hard, and I watched as he fought to keep his composure. "The Visu Choir is the most beautiful-sounding choir in Numariya," he continued, his tone softening with a hint of reverence. "It's an almost ethereal, holy experience."There was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, maybe, or a longing that he could not fully conceal. I knew this invitation meant more than just attending a performance; it was a final attempt to share something sacred, something that might bind us together even after I left. His sadness was palpable, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to fill the room, pressing down on both of us. For a moment, his gaze drifted, as if he were imagining the night ahead, the haunting melodies that would fill the air, the way the voices of the Visu Choir would rise and fall like the waves of the ocean. But then his eyes snapped back to mine, and I saw the truth there—how much it pained him to think of me leaving, how desperately he wished things could be different. And yet, beneath all of that sadness, there was something else—an unspoken promise, a silent plea for me to remember this night, this place, and him, no matter where the future might take me. His gaze softened as he turned to me, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes still held that trace of sadness."Tonight," he began, his voice quiet but firm, "I want you to wear the fanciest dress you can find in that duffle bag. The one that makes you feel like you belong somewhere important." I blinked at him, caught off guard by the request. He continued, his tone serious as he explained, "We're going to get some strange looks. You're human, and I'm..." He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "Covered in runes... and haven't attended an event outside The Dread in centuries. Any other Sidhe from the Dread would be kicked out the moment they stepped foot inside. But they'll probably let it slide, considering my bloodline." He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of his words sinking in. "And since we'll be with Thadeus, they might not even question it. But I need you to look the part, to make them think twice before they dare to say anything."There was an edge to his voice, a protective instinct that made my chest tighten. This was more than just attending a performance—it was stepping into a world where I didn't belong, where every glance would be scrutinizing, every whisper laced with judgment. And yet, Lennon's confidence in me, in us, was unshakable. His eyes met mine again, and he added, almost as an afterthought,"You might feel out of place, but tonight, we're going to show them that we belong just as much as anyone else." His expression grew more determined as he continued, "To make sure they understand exactly who they're dealing with, I'll wear my old crown tonight. No one's going to risk kicking out royalty, even if I did deny the crown to my mother. By law, I'm still the Prince of Mula."I stared at him, absorbing the weight of his words. The crown. He would don the very symbol of the throne he had turned away from, all to protect me in a world that would see me as nothing more than an outsider. He shifted slightly, as if the thought of wearing the crown again stirred something deep within him."I'll wear my old royal suit," he added, his voice softer now. "It'll be maroon and red, the colors of Mula." His eyes met mine, a silent question lingering there before he spoke again. "So, I'd like you to choose a gown that'll match well with red. Something that'll make us look like we belong there, together. They'll see the prince they once knew, and they'll see you by my side, and they won't dare to question it."His words settled over me like a protective cloak, the seriousness of the evening ahead sinking in. This was more than just a performance; it was a statement, a declaration of our place in Numariya, no matter what anyone else thought. And I couldn't help but feel a surge of resolve, knowing that tonight, in the company of royalty, I wouldn't be just a human anymore. I would be someone standing beside a prince, wearing a gown that matched the colors of a kingdom I barely understood, yet was now entwined with in ways I was only beginning to comprehend.