Chapter Eight – We Do Not Forget
Part Five – The Memory That Broke Him
The fire had nearly died.
Only coals remained, pulsing dimly beneath the ash—warm enough to stay, but not enough to cast shadow.
Selka hadn't moved.
Neither had Zephryn.
The trees above them murmured, low and listless. A breeze passed through once, curling the smoke. Somewhere far off, a Rift-howl echoed faintly across the hills. But it wasn't hunting tonight.
Selka waited until the silence settled, until the air felt safe.
Then she spoke.
"What happened in the Void?"
Zephryn didn't answer right away.
His hands had gone still. His fingers rested over his glyph, tracing the scarred edges without realizing. His eyes had drifted toward the stone wall of the hollow, unfocused.
"I've never told anyone," he said.
Selka nodded. She didn't push.
"At first… it was nothing. Just dark. Quiet. Like the inside of your own mind when you've forgotten how to think."
"Then came the light."
He paused.
"Not cast. Not fire. Her."
Selka's breath caught. She didn't speak.
"Solara."
He didn't cry. Not yet.
"I saw her standing in a field. Not one I remembered. Just… green, and gold, and too soft to be real."
"She didn't speak. Not with words. But I heard her."
"Every time I tried to move, I'd fall. Every time I fell, she'd be standing in front of me again. Same look. Same eyes."
"Not angry. Not afraid. Just… watching."
Selka's eyes lowered. "Watching you do what?"
"Forget her."
That word cracked something.
Zephryn's breath hitched. His shoulders tightened.
"I tried. I did. I tried to remember her voice. But it kept changing. Sometimes it was yours. Sometimes Kaelen's. Sometimes it was mine. But it never lasted."
"And the worst part?"
He looked up now. Directly at her.
"She looked at me… like she knew I wouldn't remember."
His voice broke on the last word.
Selka moved.
She crossed the space between them and knelt. Reached for his hand again—but this time, didn't take it. Just let it sit between them. Waiting.
"She wasn't angry," Zephryn said. "But I was."
"I started to scream. I cast without casting. My glyph flared until it burned itself into my skin. I kept trying to reach her—just to say her name right one more time."
"But every time I got close, she'd vanish."
He dropped his head.
"So I started to forget what was real."
"And then one day, the sky split. And I woke up beneath a tree."
The tears didn't fall like stormwater.
They fell like memory—slow, fragmented, and sharp.
Selka reached out now.
This time, she did take his hand. Gently.
"She died saving you."
"I know," he whispered.
"She chose to save you."
His lip trembled.
"I didn't want her to."
Selka pulled him closer.
"You didn't get to choose. That's what loving someone is."
And finally—Zephryn collapsed.
Not into panic. Not into silence.
Into her.
Into the arms of someone who had waited.
He sobbed quietly against her shoulder. No shame. No resistance.
Selka said nothing.
She held him the way Solara once held the storm. Not to stop it—just to make sure it broke in the right direction.
The wind settled.
The coals glowed faintly again.
And as Zephryn cried, his glyph pulsed—not like a cast.
Like a memory remembered the sound of its own name.