✧ Chapter Twenty-Six ✧
Beneath the Weight of Stone
from Have You Someone to Protect?
by ©Amer
The dust had settled, but the silence afterward was deafening.
Lhady coughed against the debris, blinking through the dark fog. Her fingers scraped over the broken floor, searching—"Caelum?"
A faint groan answered her. She crawled toward it, heart drumming against her ribs.
He was slumped against a wall, one leg twisted, sweat beading on his temple. The cobra's bite had bloomed into a swollen patch of bruised skin, blackening fast.
She dropped beside him, hands already moving.
"Don't move. Don't talk. Just—" Her voice broke, but she kept working. "I have herbs. I brought some in case... in case we got separated."
Caelum gave a weak laugh, teeth gritted. "I suppose we did."
"Stop joking," she whispered, and only then realized her hands were shaking. "You could've died."
His eyes found hers through the dim light, one corner of his lips tugging upward. "I still might."
"No, you're not." Her words came firm, sharper than she expected. "Not while I'm here."
She unwrapped a cloth bundle—tiny green leaves, dry but potent, crushed them against a smooth stone, and made a paste. She hesitated.
"Venom's spreading too fast," she muttered, gaze flickering to his face. "It's near the vein."
Her fingers trembled above his leg.
"I have to draw some out."
He was quiet. Too quiet.
Then—
"Are you sure?"
"No," she said honestly, then looked him straight in the eye. "But I can't watch you fade."
He stared at her for a long time. Whatever mask he'd worn—of knight, of protector—fractured slightly. There was something open in him now. Not weakness. Just realness.
He closed his eyes. "Then do it."
She leaned down. It was instinct, desperation, madness—and maybe something deeper she wouldn't name yet. She pressed her lips to the wound, drew the venom slowly, then spat it out to the side. Her mouth burned. Her hands bled from gripping the stone too tightly.
Her lips touched the punctured skin—hot with fever, trembling beneath her. Caelum tensed. Even in his pain, even as death curled its fingers around his edges, he felt it. Not just the pain. Not just the pull of survival. But her.
Something he shouldn't feel. Not now. Not like this.
He closed his eyes tighter. Not from agony—but from something more unbearable.
She repeated the process three more times before applying the herbal paste and binding it with cloth.
Only after that did her hands finally still.
She leaned in again, this time not to tend the wound but to steady him as he shifted. Their foreheads brushed—just barely—but the contact froze them both.
Lhady felt his breath catch.
She looked at him—really looked. His cheeks, usually pale beneath the grime and exhaustion, now flushed a faint but visible red. The heat of it bloomed across his face, reaching to the tips of his ears.
She didn't say a word.
But he noticed her noticing.
And that somehow made it worse.
Caelum blinked, startled by their proximity, by the warmth of her breath against his, by the way her gaze lingered without question or judgment. His blush deepened, betraying him completely.
He tried to look away, but her face was too close. Nowhere to hide.
And for a heartbeat longer, neither of them moved.
"You should've let me take the bite," she whispered.
His voice came low, rough. "I couldn't. Not if it meant losing you."
She turned her face away, but not before he saw the shimmer in her eyes again. This time, a tear did fall. Just one. More had formed, unshed and trembling underneath her lashes.
He lifted a hand with effort, brushing his knuckles against her sleeve.
"You cried," he said, as if he needed to confirm it aloud.
"I'm allowed to," she replied softly. "You nearly died saving me."
A long pause. Breathing. Flickering light. A shimmer on her cheek.
He shifted with a faint wince, then slowly sat upright, his head falling back against the stone. His breath hitched—not from pain this time, but from the truth of it.
She had cried for him.
A moment lingered. Sweet, fragile. Like something pressed in amber.
He closed his eyes slowly. "You really did cry."
She didn't deny it. Instead, she leaned back and simply said, "You're not allowed to die before I figure you out, Caelum Virelian."
He chuckled, a low sound from deep in his chest. "Then I suppose I'll live forever."
She looked around. The corridor they had fallen into wasn't unfamiliar. The scent of old paper and distant ink clung faintly to the air—an unmistakable trace of where the bookshop's archives must lie beneath.
"This place," she murmured. "It's not just any passage. It's near the bookshop... maybe even beneath it. An old route. Forbidden. Blocked off long ago."
Caelum groaned faintly. "You mean... we were this close all along?"
She managed a small smile. "All that searching. All those days. You took a path underground... and I tried to follow the pulse of the fragment."
He chuckled once, then winced. "We were always chasing echoes."
As he drifted into uneasy rest, Lhady took her frayed shawl—dirty from the tunnel, torn from the fall—and draped it around his shoulders. He shivered against it, still fevered.
She leaned against the stone beside him, eyelids heavy.
But Caelum didn't close his eyes just yet.
He watched her in the dim glow—hair tangled, a cut on her lip still fresh. And yet, she was radiant. Not in the way of court muses or marble statues, but in the quiet resilience of someone who'd bled and braved the dark without hesitation. She had cried for him. Fought for him. Saved him.
She's beautiful, he thought, not despite her scars, but because of them.
She shifted slightly beside him, head dipping forward, sleep pulling at her. Without overthinking, he moved—slowly, gently. His arm slid behind her shoulders, his hand resting just above her elbow. She stiffened at first, surprised.
"You can lean on me," he murmured, voice rough. "If you're tired."
She hesitated, then allowed herself to tilt toward him. Her head settled lightly against his shoulder.
Wordlessly, he adjusted the shawl, this time wrapping part of it around her too. The worn fabric draped across them both now—threadbare, but enough. Shared warmth. Shared silence. It wasn't much, but in the darkness, it felt like trust made tangible.
He didn't move. Didn't even breathe too deeply, afraid to disturb the closeness.
Let this stay, he thought. Just for a while.
And finally, as her breathing steadied beside him, Caelum closed his eyes too—still hurting, still afraid—but no longer alone.
The darkness held them gently, not as captives, but as two souls resting in hard-won quiet. Time became soft around the edges, marked only by breath and warmth, and the shared shawl cocooning them like a fragile truce.
Then—slowly—the night gave way to pale gold.
When morning's soft glow filtered faintly through cracks in the high ceiling, it was Caelum who stirred first, blinking groggily against the filtered light. The stiffness in his limbs ached, but not as much as the tenderness curled against his side.
His voice broke the hush. "Lhady…"
She stirred, still close, rubbing at her eyes. "Still here," she murmured, sleep-laced but steady.
"I kept something from you," he said hoarsely.
Lhady turned toward him, brow furrowed.
"I had the small fragment," he said. "It reacted to you, it pulled me toward you... That's how I found the other route."
"You knew? All this time?"
"I didn't want to give you more to carry." His eyes searched hers. "But I should've told you. I trust you. I think I've always trusted you."
She stared at him a long moment before leaning back against the cracked wall beside him. She didn't speak right away. Instead, she unwrapped another cloth parcel—this time a simple biscuit, slightly crushed—and pressed it into his palm.
"Then don't keep anything else from me."
He smiled faintly. "Deal."
Their shoulders brushed. Just slightly. Neither moved away.
Silence again—but it had changed. Not empty now. Charged.
Caelum closed his eyes, breathing her in. The warmth of her beside him. The faint scent of herbs. The way even in this dark, she was still light.
"You're not afraid anymore," he said quietly.
"Only when I thought I lost you."
And that was all. No grand declarations. No names for the thing that curled between them like steam from a morning cup. Just presence. And that was enough—for now.
Suddenly, the sigil in Lhady's pouch pulsed.
She reached for it, then took Caelum's hand. From within his coat, he brought out the smaller fragment.
As they brought them together, a spark lit in the space between. The two pieces slid closer, not by force, but by will. They locked into place with a faint hum, forming a four-pointed sigil with violet glistening edges. Intricate emblems shimmered across its surface—symbols neither of them recognized.
The stone behind them rumbled.
A new glyph appeared on the wall.
A door.
Their way out.
She helped Caelum to his feet. He staggered, leaning heavily on her, but they moved together.
She touched the glowing surface.
With a deep rumble, it began to open.
A tunnel—narrow, but leading up.
Their escape.
Then—footsteps. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just… coming. Calm. Intent. Someone else was in the tunnels.
They turned.
Lhady's hand slipped into Caelum's. He squeezed it, weak but steady.
The door was closing.