Caspian’s gaze shifted to Elara, a question in his eyes. He stood by the hearth, the flickering light casting long shadows, making him seem taller, more imposing. His head tilted slightly, an unnerving politeness in the gesture. “Is Elara… important to you, Rhys?” Rhys’s breath hitched. A tremor ran through her, subtle, but enough to make her hands clench at her sides. “Yes,” she managed, voice thin. “Very.” He nodded slowly. “Then I will ensure she feels my esteem.” “No, you don’t—” Rhys started, a frantic protest forming. She caught herself, remembering Elara’s warning. Don’t antagonize him. He turned, a faint smile touching his lips as he faced Elara. The air in the small dwelling thickened, humming with unspoken tension. “Elara,” he began, his voice smooth, apologetic. “I regret to say I may not be able to uphold any prior agreements we shared, before my… recovery.” Elara, leaning against the rough-hewn table, met his gaze calmly. A flicker of something – amusement, perhaps, or a well-masked fear – crossed her face before she spoke. “Expected it the moment you woke, Caspian. No need to fret.” His brow furrowed, a thoughtful expression. “Rhys told me I was kind. Gentle, even.” Elara offered a small, knowing smile. “You were. A perfect gentleman, by all accounts.” Her eyes flickered to Rhys, a silent message passing between them: *He bought it.* Or at least, he acted like it. Caspian looked back at Rhys. “It may take time for me to become the man you knew, the husband you remember.” “Of course,” Elara interjected, her voice steady. “We understand. Take your time.” “Doctor Aris mentioned the process would be swift. Something about an innate drive, a momentum to return to my original self.” He spoke of it with a strange pride, a possessiveness that coiled in Rhys’s stomach. Rhys felt a cold dread seep into her bones. *Inertia.* The word was a hammer blow. What if his ‘true self’ was the dangerous man she’d seen in glimpses, the man she truly feared? “Rhys,” he continued, his tone shifting, becoming more direct. “When might I begin to contribute? With the daily tasks?” “You… want to work?” Rhys’s voice was barely a whisper. Her mind raced, desperately seeking an excuse. He frowned, a subtle tightening around his eyes. “Do you not find it… unbalanced? That you’ve shouldered everything alone since my return?” “No, it’s not that.” Her palms grew damp. She rubbed them against her roughspun trousers, trying to appear nonchalant. “You need to rest. Focus on your health, Caspian. Your recovery. It would ease my mind.” The lie felt like ash in her mouth. “Caspian,” he corrected, his voice a low rumble. He stepped closer, planting a hand on the lintel above the doorway. His gaze was fixed on her, unwavering. “Just Caspian.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. He was close enough that she could smell the faint scent of ash and something metallic, like old blood, clinging to his clothes. The air grew heavy, thick with an unspoken demand. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, held her captive. Rhys stiffened, every muscle locked. A cold dread prickled her skin, like the kiss of a blunted blade. She remembered that gaze from the Ashfall. It was the look of a predator. Caspian leaned his head against his forearm, his shoulders briefly slumping. Yet, the sharp line of his brow remained visible, taut. “Do you… no longer see me as a man?” His voice was softer now, laced with a vulnerability that felt entirely manufactured. She couldn’t respond. Her tongue felt too large, stuck to the roof of her mouth. The shift in his demeanor, the sudden hint of fragility, was more terrifying than overt anger. It was a snare. He pressed a thumb to his temple. “I feel like a fool. A fractured mind, consumed by one solitary image.” Rhys remained silent, her breath shallow. Each word was a thread, weaving a net around her. “Your face,” he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet hers again. The intensity was back, sharper than before. “It haunts me. A constant ache behind my eyes. The fear that even that memory, fragmented as it is, might fade.” He clenched his jaw, as if in genuine pain. “It would drive me mad.” A strange pity, unbidden and unwelcome, pricked at Rhys. He seemed genuinely distressed, a lost soul grasping for purchase. But underneath, a warning bell rang. This man was a weapon, whether he remembered it or not. “If that happens,” he whispered, reaching out. His fingers, long and scarred, brushed her cheek. “I cannot promise I will be a kind husband.” Rhys flinched, a jolt of terror shocking through her. His touch was cold, a stark contrast to the fabricated warmth of her lie. Her pulse hammered, a frantic drumbeat against her ears, as if she’d just outrun a Collapse beast. She fought the urge to recoil, to scream. Watching, Elara cleared her throat. “He’s certainly… not just any man, is he?” Her voice was low, almost to herself. She pulled a small slate and charcoal stick from her belt pouch, her eyes still on Caspian, then began to scratch out a message, perhaps a name, to someone unknown. --- That night, Rhys hid in the workshop, the scent of dried herbs and mineral dust a thin comfort. She feigned work, adjusting a bellows, stirring a simmering concoction. She would not share a bed with him tonight. *Never.* Not if she could help it. An old bolt on the workshop door, meant for privacy, had been wrenched from its frame days ago. Caspian, in his early days of recovery, had broken it open, curious, his strength unexpected even then. She remembered the splintered wood, the casual destruction. There were no locks, not really. Not here. She moved to the doorway, peering into the narrow hall. A faint light bled from the sleeping loft. She could hear the rhythmic thud of solid impacts. He was there. Training. Through the open door of the loft, she saw him. Caspian’s bare torso gleamed with sweat, muscles coiling and flexing with each push-up. The rough bedroll lay undisturbed. His recovery was unnervingly fast. The emaciated shell he’d been after the Ashfall now housed a coiled spring of brutal strength. Rhys felt a primal aversion. She understood the plants, the earth, the delicate balance of life. But beasts, especially ones wearing a human face? They terrified her. A floorboard creaked above. Time was slipping. Rhys retreated, closing the workshop door, not bothering with the broken latch. She leaned against it, breath ragged. A sharp ache throbbed behind her eyes. Since the sun dipped below the horizon, her mind had fixated on a single, desperate question: How to avoid the night with Caspian? A soft knock sounded, just once. “Rhys?” His voice, low and even, seemed to vibrate through the thin wood. She stared at the dark seam under the door. A sliver of light from the hall caught the edge of a boot, dark and heavy. She pulled a worn blanket from a shelf, pressing it to her face, muffling her breathing. *He must go away. Just go.* Her prayers rarely found purchase in this world. The knob rattled, a soft, deliberate turn. The door didn’t open, but the sound was a declaration. “Rhys, open the door.” His voice held no anger, no impatience, just a flat certainty that made her tremble. Silence fell, thick and suffocating. How long did she stand there, rigid, listening? Minutes stretched, each one an eternity. Then, a faint creak of floorboards. The shadow under the door lifted, elongated, then vanished. He was moving away. Rhys let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her pounding heart. He was gone. Relief washed over her, an intoxicating wave. She was safe for now. The old Enclave clock, gifted by the Elders, chimed the hour. Her body moved before her mind registered the thought. She edged to the door, pressing her ear to the wood, straining to hear. “Did you think I left?” The voice was a whisper, right outside the door, chilling her to the bone.

The Unlocked Door