Erich and Salazar locked eyes—one filled with contempt, the other unreadable. For a beat, the Norsefire captain said nothing, then let out a short, derisive laugh, caught somewhere between disbelief and disdain.
"You?" he scoffed, leveling his saber toward him. "You're the little fotze who butchered my men? Who dared lay siege to my facility?"
Salazar's smirk was a blade in itself. "Well, not entirely unaided, as I'm sure you've gathered." He gestured lazily toward the serpents that writhed at the edges of the corridor, still coiled, still waiting.
Nirah slithered up his leg and across his back before settling atop his shoulder. Salazar tilted his head slightly toward her as she hissed in his ear, forked tongue flicking. His emerald eyes sharpened.
"Captain… Erich," he said, drawing out the name like a noose tightening. A flicker of something passed through Erich's face—recognition, perhaps fear. His men shifted uneasily, exchanging glances, uncertain whether to prepare for battle or run for their lives.
"How... how did you—?" Erich began, only to fall silent as Salazar raised a single finger.
Nirah hissed again, longer this time.
Salazar's expression twisted. "What?" he asked her, softly. Then, his gaze returned to Erich—now sharpened with venomous fury. "Did he now?"
His smirk vanished.
"Oh, Captain Erich..." Salazar's words fell to a dangerous hush, each word sharpened with contempt. "If only language were sufficient to express the sheer depth of your filth. Your predilection for the young—how utterly revolting." He exhaled. "Tell me... how many of Caerleon's own have you ruined to satisfy that wretched appetite? How many wore the crest of Excalibur on their robes when you took them?"
He stepped forward, the tip of his spear slicing the air with a low hum. Every serpent in the corridor tensed, poised to strike. "I have seen men drown in their own depravity, wallowing like pigs in the muck—but you… you've crawled deeper still. You've gone beneath the rot, beneath the worst of us, and made a home there. Even among monsters, you've managed to stand alone."
"So, before I rip your still beating heart from your chest and feed what's left of you to them…" he stopped just short of striking distance, "tell me—where is she?"
Erich tilted his head, brows lifting in feigned innocence. Until understanding dawned, and his mouth curled into a cruel smile.
"Ah… the fräulein," he mused aloud. "You mean to tell me all this chaos, this carnage… was for her?" He chuckled darkly, tapping his saber against his shoulder. "Mein Gott… how utterly pathetic."
"Dozens upon dozens of loyal men and women of the Tower—dead," Erich snarled, eyes ablaze. "Fallen under my command, never to draw breath again, all because of your bleeding, miserable heart." His face twisted with rage, spittle flying. "Scheiß auf dich! I'll flay you alive and wear your skin like a suit!"
"How charming," Salazar replied with a smirk, tilting his head. "Tell me—is it a cultural tradition where you're from, or are you simply airing out your kinks?"
Erich ignored the jibe, drawing a slow breath as he swept a gloved hand through his disheveled hair.
"Back in the Fatherland, they spoke of your kind," he said. "Whispers of those who utter the unholy tongue of serpents. The dark sons of the fallen. Descendants of the most unclean." His lip curled in disgust. "And you dare stand before me, you blasphemous wretch."
"Oh, the old nicknames," Salazar mused, eyes glinting. "I'd almost forgotten. It's rather touching, hearing them again. Almost like a reunion." He trained his spear at Erich and what remained of his men. "But the thing about nicknames, Captain—they aren't merely insults."
He spun the spear once in his grip, the twin blades humming with a metallic trill as they caught the light. Then, with deliberate grace, he lowered his stance—shoulders squared, spear angled like the fang of a striking serpent.
The floor beneath him seemed to still. The snakes around the walls tensed, heads raised, as if waiting for the signal. All the air in the corridor thinned with silence—just before the storm.
"They're warnings," Salazar said, his emerald eyes locked onto Erich's. "And yours… has just run out."
****
Erich's face contorted in rage, veins bulging at his temples as he pointed furiously down the corridor. "Töte ihn!" he bellowed. "Kill him!"
"First one to bring me his head—" he roared, brandishing his saber above his head, "—will be named my second!"
The guards surged forward, weapons bared and wands alight. Salazar moved without hesitation—he split the twin blades of his spear and met their charge head-on. The steel hissed as it parted the air, and Nirah slithered down the length of the weapon like a bolt of shadow. She launched herself at the first guard, sinking her fangs deep into his neck. He screamed, staggering backward before crashing to the floor in a twitching heap.
Three guards with swords came at him from the front, blades flashing. Sparks leapt with every clash of steel against his spear. Salazar danced between them, his movements tight and efficient. A wand's spell shot past him, missing by inches, shattering a wall sconce behind. The corridor was too narrow—panic dulled their aim.
He drove the butt of his spear into the gut of one swordsman, then spun it, catching another across the face with the shaft. Bones cracked, blood spattered. One guard raised his sword high—Salazar caught his wrist mid-swing, yanked him close, and slammed him into the adjacent door. The wood splintered as they crashed through into the next room.
Inside, the fight continued in a blur. Salazar ducked under a slash, struck low, sending a guard toppling with a kick to the knee. Another came from behind—he twisted, using the spear's haft to choke him, then hurled him across the room. The man crumpled against the far wall.
The last swordbearer tried to flee. Salazar flung his spear like a javelin. The weapon shrieked through the air and struck true, impaling the guard clean through the chest. Blood splashed the wall as he crumpled. As he hissed, the spear snapped back, spinning through the air before landing in Salazar's hand.
Just then, two wand-wielding guards burst into the room, spells at the ready. Salazar's gaze flicked to the remaining two swordbearers—one to his left, the other flanking right. Without hesitation, he hurled both halves of his spear.
The blackened blades screamed through the air, striking each man square in the chest. The impact knocked the breath from their lungs as steel punched through bone and heart. They collapsed with a wet gasp, blood bubbling at their lips.
Salazar didn't stop. With a sharp hiss in serpentine tongue, he thrust both arms forward. The lifeless bodies jerked upright, carried by the momentum of the still-embedded spears. They slammed into the oncoming wand-bearers like battering rams, crashing into them with bone-snapping force.
All four guards tumbled into the hallway in a heap of twisted limbs and cracked armor, groaning in agony or death. The twin spears disengaged with a hiss, zipping back through the air to Salazar's open hands. Salazar stepped back into the hallway, the green scarf from the shaft of the spear fluttering like a serpent's tail, and wiped blood from the edge of his blade.
Erich's knees gave way beneath him the moment Salazar turned his gaze. That cold, predatory stare was void of mercy. Panic twisted the captain's features as the two wand-wielding guards scrambled to their feet.
"Avada Ke—!"
They never finished. Their bodies seized violently. Black veins crawled up their skin like crawling rot, their eyes bursting red as blood streamed from every orifice—nose, mouth, sockets. They collapsed behind Salazar, twitching once before going still.
"G-get out here, idioten!" Erich shrieked. "Schnell! SCHNELL!"
Doors burst open behind him. Reinforcements poured in—dozens of Norsefire guards, weapons drawn, eyes wide with dread. Salazar didn't hesitate. His hands spun the twin halves of his spear, the steel whistling like a wraith's cry as he surged forward into the wave.
The corridor lit with chaos. Serpents hissed and lunged at exposed flesh, fangs biting deep. The clang of steel rang out as Salazar met the guards head-on. He was a whirlwind—ducking, twisting, each strike surgical. A blade through a throat. A thrust into a ribcage. The spear carved through flesh like parchment, fountains of blood painting the cracked white walls.
Some guards dropped instantly, others writhed on the floor, choking as venom set their nerves ablaze. They screamed. They begged. None were spared.
And all the while, Salazar advanced, the distance between him and Erich shrinking.
The captain's face drained of color. His bravado shattered. In true coward's fashion, he spun on his heel and bolted for the far end of the hall, footsteps loud against the blood-slicked floor.
Salazar's grip tightened. He tossed the spear halves into the air—metal snapped together with a resounding clang as the weapon reformed mid-spin. He caught it, stance lowering, body coiling like a predator about to strike.
His eyes blazed amber, slitted like a serpent's. He whispered, reverent and lethal. "Call forth the night, and drown the world in darkness."
Green flame burst from the spear's tip, spiraling down the shaft in writhing tendrils. "Strike—Gáe," He hurled the spear. "Birgha!"
It tore through the corridor like the wrath of something ancient—an executioner's stroke borne on wind and fire. The walls groaned and cracked, stone splintering as the very air shrieked, rupturing in its wake. From the tip of Salazar's spear bloomed a serpent wreathed in emerald flame—its form spectral and vast, a viper wrought from shadow and fury. Its mouth gaped wide, fangs bared, hissing with a sound that split the marrow.
Erich turned, just in time to see it coming—long enough for his bulging eyes to widen, to catch the flash of green fire mirrored in their glassy surface.
He had just enough time to scream.
****
The heavy steel door to Helena's holding cell didn't merely open—it detonated inward with a thunderous roar, its hinges sheared clean off. The twisted metal slammed against the far wall, echoing like a war drum. A heartbeat later, a body followed, flung through the air like a discarded ragdoll. It crashed into the stone wall with a sickening crunch, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in the masonry.
Helena flinched, her chains rattling as she turned toward the commotion. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight before her.
Erich.
The once-imposing captain now hung limply, impaled against the wall by a spear of blackened metal. Blood oozed from the wound in his gut, staining his pristine uniform. His saber lay forgotten on the floor, its blade glinting dully in the dim light.
The spear was unlike any weapon she had seen—six feet of obsidian steel, adorned with intricate serpentine engravings. It pulsed with a faint, eerie glow, as if alive.
A chorus of hisses filled the room, and Helena's eyes widened. A scream escaped her as dozens of snakes slithered in through the shattered doorway. They moved with purpose, encircling her without aggression, their scales glistening in the flickering light.
"Rest easy, Helena," a familiar voice called out, calm and resolute. "They mean you no harm."
She turned her head, disbelief etched across her face.
"S-Salazar?" she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
He smiled faintly. Not with warmth, but with reassurance.
Salazar stepped past her. Eyes fixed on the man nailed to the wall like a rotting painting. He stopped inches away from Erich, his presence casting a long, commanding shadow.
"Feiges..." Erich coughed, blood spattering across his uniform. "Schwein... you wouldn't dare face me like a man. Instead, you resort to tricks like the filth you command."
Salazar glanced down at Erich's untouched saber, then back up.
"Polished. Ornamental. Hardly a nick," Salazar murmured. "Rather appropriate, isn't it? A gleaming blade for a man who's only ever swung it at the helpless."
He chuckled, bitter and low. "Don't delude yourself. I've laid eyes on true swordsmen—warriors who could bring me to my knees before I even raised a wand. Against them, my spear would be little more than theatre." He leaned in closer. "But you? You're no warrior. You're a coward in pressed uniform. And against the likes of you... it wouldn't have even been sport."
Salazar grasped the spear, and Erich screamed as Salazar twisted it, the sound of tearing flesh filling the room.
"Oh, so you can feel pain after all?" Salazar snarled; his grip white-knuckled around the shaft of his spear. "I was beginning to wonder if vermin like you is even capable of such a feeling… or if it's simply been too long since someone gave you the agony you so richly deserve."
Erich spat blood. Lips twisted in defiance even as the color drained from his face. "Miststück... Du Hurensohn—ARGH!"
Salazar twisted the spear sharply, and the captain's scream echoed through the stone chamber like a guttural dirge.
"This…" Salazar growled, "is but a sliver of what you've earned." His eyes burned. "Every girl you shackled. Every soul you tortured. Every cry you silenced—I wish I could carve it all into your flesh."
Blackened veins spread up Erich's neck like cracks through old porcelain. His eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting into webs of crimson. Teeth ground together so hard they cracked in his jaw, blood and bile seeping past his lips in bubbling rivulets. His arms jerked involuntarily, the nerves beneath his skin screaming.
"What you're feeling right now… this is the worst pain you'll ever know. And yet it pales in comparison to what you've inflicted on others," Salazar said, each word cutting with surgical precision. "You've preyed on the helpless your entire life. Now look at you."
He then unfastened the second spear. "But I'll grant you mercy. Not because you've earned it," he said, "but because I want to see it. That moment—when your soul flees your body, when you realize the monster you feared… is real."
Without warning, Salazar flipped it in his hand and thrust the spear upward, ramming it beneath Erich's jaw. The blade shot through bone and brain like a needle through parchment. Erich's eyes snapped wide. Terror etched into the final instant of his life.
Salazar leaned in close.
"My name is Salazar Slytherin. But when you reach the gates of Hell… tell the devil himself—Donn sends his regards."
At the mention of that name, something flickered in Erich's gaze—a moment of clarity. Of recognition. But all he could muster was a choking whimper before Salazar drove the spear upward once more. The point burst clean through the top of his skull with a sickening crack. The captain convulsed—and then, at last, fell still.
The room was silent. Not a single hiss from the serpents. Not even a breath.
Just Salazar, standing in the quiet aftermath, watching the last light fade from a monster's eyes.
****
Salazar wrenched both ends of the spear from Erich's corpse, the blades sliding free with a wet, grotesque squelch. As the body crumpled, the serpents swarmed in, coiling hungrily around the lifeless limbs, dragging the defiler into a sea of scales.
He turned his back on the mess and stepped toward Helena. One clean stroke from his spear sliced through the chain above her wrists, the cuffs snapping apart with a metallic ping. She gasped as her legs gave out—but before she could hit the floor, Salazar let the spears drift from his grip, hovering mid-air as he caught her gently in his arms. The twin halves twirled behind him before sliding seamlessly into the holster on his back.
He laid her down carefully on the cold stone. Her eyes—brimming with shock, exhaustion, and something else—locked with his. Then her gaze shifted—to the serpents slithering over Erich's remains, to the blood smeared across the floor, and back again to the man kneeling beside her.
"Now you know," Salazar said quietly, not meeting her eyes. "What I am. Who I truly am. The rumors, the whispers in the dark about what I did to Rance... they're not fiction, Helena. They're fact. And if you decide never to speak to me again, I'll understand. I won't blame you for telling the world, nor would I blame you for—"
Her fingertip pressed lightly to his lips. "Honestly, Salazar," she said, a wry glimmer in her eyes. "Do you ever stop talking?"
He blinked, then gave a faint laugh—the smallest, but perhaps the most honest in weeks. "One of my many character flaws, I'm afraid."
His eyes flicked to her uniform—torn, stained, barely clinging to dignity. "Hmm… I see you've opted for a rather bold fashion statement. Shall I assume the war-torn waif look is back in vogue?"
Helena rolled her eyes. "Oh, grow up, Salazar."
Without a word, he slipped off his coat and draped it gently over her shoulders, wrapping it with care. Then, without warning, he swept her off the floor, lifting her into his arms. A blush rose to her cheeks.
"Steady now," he said. "Onward, my dear princess. Your castle awaits."
As they reached the threshold, he paused, glancing over the carnage. "Word of advice," he added, "do try to keep your eyes forward. I wasn't feeling particularly merciful tonight."
They moved down the corridor, the weight of exhaustion clinging to every breath. She tried not to look—but the sights forced themselves upon her. The floor was carpeted in serpents, a living tide of coiling scales and glinting eyes. They slithered over corpses sprawled in grotesque final poses, some twisted in terror, others still as stone. From open mouths, snakes slid lazily out, as though the bodies had been nothing more than temporary shelter. The air was thick with the smell of blood, venom, and something fouler—like charred rot laced with fear.
The hissing was relentless, echoing through the walls like a chorus of whispers that never ceased. It should have sent her into a panic—but it softened, as if quieting in deference, each snake slinking away the moment Salazar passed. She tightened her grip around his neck, burying her face briefly against his shoulder. His warmth grounded her. His heartbeat was steady. Human. Real.
She looked up, cheeks flushed. "So… how did you find me?"
She flinched as her gaze shifted—and locked onto a pale, narrow head resting on his shoulder. The snake, white as bone, stared back at her with eyes like polished jet.
"Helena, meet Nirah," Salazar said, his grin faint but unmistakably proud. "Oldest, most dearest companion I have. Incredibly clever. Incredibly lethal."
The serpent coiled comfortably along his shoulder, pale as moonlight, its scales catching the faint glimmer of the lamps above. "She's part Inland Taipan, part—" He paused, clearing his throat. "Something else. Ultimately, one of the most venomous species in existence. A single bite can drop a hundred men before they realize they're dying."
Helena swallowed; her gaze locked on the snake's unblinking eyes. It stared back at her, head tilted slightly, tongue flickering as if in amusement.
"She's the one who found you," Salazar went on, nodding toward the snake. "Tracked your scent through half of bloody Caerleon. I, meanwhile, carved through three entire facilities before stumbling upon this one. Wasn't easy… and certainly not clean." He paused, smirking faintly. "Not that I minded. They were crawling with Norsefire filth. Frankly, I consider it a service to the city."
Nirah gave a soft, deliberate hiss—almost approving. Salazar let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "She says she likes your eyes."
"She says—" Helena's eyes widened. "Y-you understood her? You speak snake?" The shock in her voice bordered on awe. "By the stars… you're a Parselmouth!"
"Yes, and yes," Salazar replied with a wry smile. "A rather inconvenient inheritance from the old blood—my father's side, naturally. I can't say I'm fond of it, but... it does come in handy now and then."
"I've only read about it in books. Heard stories," Helena said. "I-I thought it was just myth, but to see it with my own eyes."
Salazar exchanged a look with Nirah, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Isn't that always the way of it, my dear?" he mused aloud, watching Nirah give a knowing nod. "They call it legend—until it hisses back."
"Do they know?" Helena asked suddenly. "Helga, Rowena… Godric?"
Salazar's steps slowed. His gaze flicked toward her, then drifted away, the edges of his expression clouding.
"You're the only one, Helena," he said at last, the words heavy as stone. "At least… the only one still breathing." He paused, his gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the corridor walls. "Do you remember what you said, back at The Congregation? That quip about a body count fit for half of Caerleon?"
She nodded faintly.
Salazar exhaled, a sound caught somewhere between wry amusement and bitterness. "When I answered, it wasn't entirely in jest. Not really."
The chill that followed his words gripped her tighter than any wind ever could, but when Helena looked at him—truly looked—and saw beyond the calm façade. Beneath the cold wit and monstrous power, there was pain. The kind that never left a man's eyes.
Her fingers curled a little more tightly around the lapel of his coat.
"You're full of surprises, Salazar," she whispered.
"I should hope so," he said with a faint chuckle. "Wouldn't want to become predictable now, would I?"
As they descended the marble stairs, the chaos began to thin. Crowds of dazed civilians moved toward the doors, ushered forward by serpents that slithered aside, parting like a tide to allow them safe passage. Mothers clutched their children tightly, shielding their eyes from the bloodstained floor and shattered walls. Some wept. Others simply stared, too hollow to cry. They had been freed—yet the fear still clung to them, stitched into their bones.
"There's so many of them," Helena whispered. "Every day they brought more in. Men, women… even children." Her fingers curled into his shirt, knuckles white. "The guards… they treated them like animals. No, worse. Like they enjoyed it."
Salazar's boots touched the final step. "Give a man unchecked power and strip away the weight of consequence," he said evenly, "and you see what truly festers beneath the skin. I've watched cruelty take root in ordinary men, grow into something twisted. Not always out of hatred, but out of something far colder—satisfaction."
Helena looked up at him, her eyes searching. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
Salazar offered a faint, crooked smile—one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Perhaps I am."
As they neared the exit, the cold night air wafting in through the shattered front doors, a woman clutching her young daughter brushed past them in haste—only to stop suddenly. She turned, her wide, tear-stained eyes settling on Salazar. For a moment, the world seemed to still.
"You…" she breathed, hugging her child tighter. "You're the one, aren't you? You freed us."
Salazar stood silent. His features composed beneath the flickering light of broken lamps overhead.
"Thank you," she whispered. "From the bottom of my heart… thank you." Her eyes lingered on him just a moment longer, then she turned and vanished into the night.
A breath left Salazar's chest, almost imperceptible. A quiet smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Helena, still wrapped in his coat, gave him a wry look, her brow raised in mock solemnity. "Careful, Salazar Slytherin," she said dryly. "Keep that up and people might start mistaking you for a hero."
He gave a soft chuckle. "Oh, heavens no. That title's best left to Godric. Cloaks, medals, noble speeches—it's all rather exhausting." He shot her a sidelong glance. "Me? I'm more… a herald of darkness."
Helena groaned. "By the stars, that's the lamest thing I've ever heard."
Salazar grinned. "To each their own, I suppose."
Then he turned to Nirah, who rested coiled around his shoulder. "Tell your kin to finish sweeping the halls. Once they've had their fill… have them vanish. I'll see you at the castle."
Nirah flicked her tongue in reply before slithering down his arm, disappearing into the writhing sea of serpents now retreating into the shadows.
And so, side by side, Salazar and Helena stepped out of the ruined precinct into the quiet dark of the city. Behind them, the walls of tyranny crumbled. Before them, the weight of whatever came next.
****
The night deepened, shadows growing longer as Salazar and Helena made their quiet return toward the castle. They kept to the forgotten veins of the city—narrow paths, dim alleys, overgrown courtyards where the only company was wind and rusted fence. Salazar had anticipated Norsefire's response; once word spread that their holding facilities had become crypts, their forces would shift—scrambling to contain the fallout, abandoning key posts in their panic. It suited him fine. He wouldn't mind thinning their numbers further.
They passed through the park skirting the lake, the wrought iron banisters along the coast slick with dew. Cardigan's waters shimmered with moonlight, black and cold beneath the sky. In the distance, the spires of Excalibur pierced the night, their silhouettes like solemn sentinels watching over them.
Helena clutched his coat tighter around her shoulders, the hem brushing against her knees. Her tattered uniform offered little against the biting breeze, and she was painfully aware of how bare she was beneath it. Her steps slowed, eyes flicking toward Salazar—who walked ahead with calm, measured strides, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his gaze alert, sweeping the dark.
He caught her staring.
One brow rose ever so slightly, that glimmer of amusement tugging faintly at his lips. She looked away at once, cheeks flushing.
"I know that look," Salazar said, unmistakably amused. "It's the one you wear when you're about to ask something and haven't the faintest idea how."
"What? No! I—" Helena stumbled over her words, mortified. "I haven't a clue what you mean, Slytherin!"
Salazar tilted his head, regarding her with that irritating, knowing expression. She sighed, shoulders sinking in defeat.
"Alright, fine," she muttered. "It's a question." Her voice softened. "Why?"
"I'm… afraid I don't quite follow," Salazar said, his tone calm, but his expression had slackened just slightly, betraying the falter beneath the mask.
"Oh, don't make me say it," Helena stopped in her tracks, frustration flickering in her eyes. "Why did you do it? Why did you come for me?"
Salazar pressed a hand to his chest in mock offence. "Helena, I'm shocked. Must a gentleman justify rescuing a dear friend in distress? I thought it was rather—"
"Oh, cut the crap, Salazar!" she snapped. "I'm not in the mood for your clever little quips and serpentine nonsense. Just answer me—truthfully."
She stepped toward him. "All that chaos in Caerleon? That trail of bodies and broken walls?" Her eyes searched his. "You revealed who you are. What you are. That wasn't a minor risk—it was everything. So why?" Her words barely carried now. "Why me?"
For a moment, Salazar didn't speak.
Then he drew a breath and reached out—gently wrapping his arms around her. Helena tensed, eyes widening in surprise as he pulled her close. Her breath caught, the warmth of his body enveloping her against the cold night.
"I honestly couldn't say," he murmured, his gaze cast to the lake beyond. "You've always been… profoundly exasperating. The way you talk. The way you storm about like you own every room you enter. That ridiculous fire in your eyes."
Helena looked up at him with a deadpan stare. "Gee, thanks."
"I'm not done," he said with a soft chuckle. "I admit, I've made something of a sport out of teasing you. In truth, I found it endlessly entertaining." His words quieted. "But despite all that, I considered you a friend. Even the night we… shared, I told myself it was a fleeting indulgence. A moment in passing."
He looked down at her now. "But when Rowena told me they'd taken you… something changed. I didn't think. I just moved. As if some part of me already knew—knew I had to find you. Knew I wasn't going to stop until I did."
Helena's gaze softened, her defenses slowly melting.
"I won't pretend this is something grand or poetic," Salazar began. "I've never been good with… that sort of thing. I don't think I even understand the full meaning of it. Not in the way it deserves." He paused, glancing away. "But I do know I care about you. Deeply. Perhaps as much as I care for Godric, Helga, Rowena..."
He faltered for a heartbeat.
"Maybe more."
He drew a slow breath. "What I'm trying to say is—"
But he never finished. Her lips found his, silencing the words he hadn't yet formed. Salazar froze for just a breath, his eyes wide—then closed them, drawing her in with a soft exhale as he returned the kiss. It was tender, heavy with all the things they hadn't said.
When she finally pulled away, her hand lingered at his cheek, warm against the night air.
"Honestly, Salazar," she murmured with a small smile, "you talk too damned much."
He leaned into her palm, a low chuckle slipping from his chest. "So, I've been told." His fingers moved gently through her long auburn hair. "So then… what does this make us?"
Helena hesitated. "I don't know," she admitted. She rested her head against his chest, arms wrapping around him, holding him as if afraid to let go. "But I want to find out. If you do too."
Salazar laid his chin lightly atop her head. His arms settled around her with something rare in him—peace.
"I'd like that," he said. "Very much indeed."