The descent from Selnar's Spine was not marked by snow or silence.
It was marked by feeling.
For the first time since his reincarnation, Ael could not seal away the emotions rising in him—couldn't file them into calculations or bury them beneath logic.
He felt warmth when Nirra smiled. A twinge of guilt when he saw Arien's old war scars. A strange, hollow ache when Rema sang a lullaby to Fenn.
But strongest of all… was the pull.
Like an invisible thread, taut and shimmering, tied to something far away.
Someone.
Vel.
It wasn't pain or warning. Not like soul resonance or magical backlash. It was gentler. Familiar. Like the ghost of a memory that wasn't quite his—but also was.
—
That night, as they camped in the shadow of the lowland forest, Nirra noticed him staring into the fire, fingers lightly touching his chest.
"You feel it too?" she asked, voice quiet.
He nodded. "A thread."
Nirra's brow furrowed. "Old soul magic. Most don't remember it. We call it the Elar Thread. It forms when two souls once shared something so intense it echoes through reincarnation."
"Love?"
"Or hatred. Or sorrow. It doesn't always return in the same form. Sometimes it becomes a curse. Sometimes... a bond."
Ael looked at her.
"Vel," she said without question.
He didn't respond, but he didn't need to.
The thread thrummed between them—distant, faint, but unmistakably alive.
—
By dawn, Ael's decision was made.
He would find Vel again.
Not to stop her.
Not yet.
But to understand what remained of their past.
If he had torn away love from his soul in a life before this one, and that love had not died… then where had it gone?
What if it hadn't vanished at all?
What if it had chosen to become something else?
—
Their journey led them through forgotten ruins—places left to rot when the kingdoms turned to war. Crumbled temples, sunken estates, villages devoured by roots.
And all along the way, the thread grew warmer.
Not brighter. Not heavier.
Warmer.
Vel was not calling him.
But she was waiting.
—
Three days later, they reached a ridge overlooking a wide field of gold-flowered grass.
In the center stood a small, lone structure—half-shrine, half-watchtower.
And by its side sat Vel, her dark armor discarded, her sword laid flat across her knees like a sleeping beast.
She didn't flinch when Ael approached.
Didn't rise. Didn't speak.
Only opened her eyes and stared up at him with an expression that wasn't hostility.
It was tired.
Worn down by more than battles.
Worn down by memory.
—
"You remember now," she said softly.
Ael sat beside her, the wind weaving through the grass in waves.
"I do."
"And?"
"I think we were both wrong."
Vel let out a dry laugh. "The bridge-builder and the flame-wielder, wrong? What a tragedy."
"You carry my missing half," he said. "Not as a possession. But as something I once gave freely."
She looked down at her hands.
"I didn't want it. I didn't know I had it. But when I first saw you again in this life… I felt something I didn't understand. Something I thought was weakness."
She lifted her gaze to the sky.
"And when you turned away from the world to help it heal, I turned toward the fire to stop it from scarring anyone else."
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Just sat.
Old souls, broken paths, twin echoes of something they could barely name.
Finally, Ael broke the silence.
"There's a third force, Vel. One that erases identity. A power that wants silence over survival. I saw what it did to a village. I heard its voice—my voice—speaking back to me."
Vel nodded.
"I've heard it too. It whispers in my dreams. It tells me to stop fighting. That peace can be forced with stillness."
"I think… it's afraid of us."
Vel turned to him.
"Why?"
"Because despite everything, we remember each other."
The thread pulsed between them.
Soft.
Steady.
Alive.
—
They didn't promise peace.
Didn't swear unity.
But as they sat beneath the watchtower where the wind carried no judgment, Ael and Vel began something new.
Not as enemies.
Not as saviors.
But as two fragments of a broken king's heart—
Finally learning to beat in the same rhythm.