The bed is narrow, clearly not meant for two, but we make it work. Raith lies on his back, one arm behind his head, while I curl on my side facing him. There's a careful inch of space between us, a boundary neither of us is quite ready to cross despite everything that's happened.

Just like he warned, the heat radiating from him is like a small furnace. But it's cold, even in the fire tower, and his heat feels absolutely perfect. It makes me desperately want to cling to him and cuddle close.

"The dreams," I say into the darkness. "The ones I've been having. They feel like memories, but they're not mine."

I feel him tense beside me. "What do you see?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"A castle. A child running. Screams." I hesitate. "Fire."

The silence stretches so long I think he might not answer. Then, "The tether," he says finally.

The truth I’ve suspected and been afraid to acknowledge finally rises up, impossible to ignore any longer. The dreams aren’t from Typhon. They’re not imaginary. They’re memories.

Raith’s memories.

Which means… gods.

Raith was supposed to be a king. But a king of where?

"Are they your memories?" I ask directly.

Another long pause. "Yes," he admits, the word barely audible.

I wait for him to elaborate, to explain the child, the castle, the fire. To explain how the hells a prince in line for a throne could wind up as a volunteer at Confluence and covered in scars. But he remains silent, the weight of unspoken truths heavy between us.

"You don't have to tell me," I say finally. "Not until you're ready." If I hadn't seen what I've seen, I would maybe press him harder. But if those are his memories? The sound of that scream—his sister's scream—comes to my mind so vividly it gives me cold chills. The thought of his brother, Gareth, makes my heart ache. The brother he lost. The brother he cared for so deeply he's trying to take care of all the fire affinities now to make up for what happened.

But none of it was his fault. I want to tell him that. I want to say something, but I can't find the words.

He turns his head toward me, his profile silver in the moonlight streaming through the window. "And if I'm never ready?"

"Then we'll deal with that when the time comes," I reply.

His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining. "You should hate me," he says softly. "For keeping things from you. For pulling you into... this."

"I don't," I tell him. "And I'm here because I choose to be. With you. Whether you like it or not."

He makes a sound, half laugh, half sigh. "So fucking stubborn."

"Says the most stubborn man at Confluence."