Ashes of Elysian

Chapter XIV The Trial of Binding

The tent was quiet, save for the soft cadence of sleeping breath and the distant rustle of leaves beyond the canvas.
The night after their fight, after their passion, after truth itself had been flayed open between them, had left Kaelen bone-weary.
His body ached—not just from what they'd shared, but from what it had released. Fury. Fear. Longing. Love. Everything he kept buried deep beneath the blade and the silence.
Now, with his arm curved protectively around Serenya's waist, her body curled into his chest, he could feel the aftershock of it all pulsing beneath his skin. Like lightning that had struck, and now left only tremor.
The scent of her still lingered in his lungs. A mix of lavender and sweat, salt and skin. Familiar now. Sacred in a way he didn't understand. Her breath was slow and even, her spine pressed flush against his chest, the rhythm of her heartbeat subtle but present against his arm.
She was asleep.
Of that he was sure.
He wasn't.
Not yet.
His eyes were open, staring upward at the sloping interior of their tent. Just canvas and shadow. The faint glow of coals outside cast dappled light through the seams. Gold flickers, flickering slow. It looked like starlight filtered through water.
He blinked.
Still awake.
And yet... already beginning to drift.
His thoughts wandered.
Not sharp. Not violent. Just... slow. Heavy.
He thought of her lips.
Of the way her nails had traced his spine.
Of the way her voice had broken—not in pleasure, but in honesty. In fear.
And how he had broken too.
They hadn't spoken since.
And strangely, it hadn't felt like silence. It had felt like a decision.
Not every wound needed a bandage.
Some needed breath.
Some needed stillness.
And she'd given it to him. Just as he had given her his weight, his body, his doubts—all of it, wrapped in sweat and tremor and the gasping, wordless mercy of release.
Kaelen exhaled through his nose, closed his eyes.
The first wave came like warm water over the skin.
Not sleep.
Not yet.
But something looser than waking.
A half-state.
A memory of softness, of being rocked gently by some unseen hand.
His grip on Serenya loosened. His body settled deeper into the bedroll, the aches of strain giving way to that first, fleeting sense of surrender.
The wind outside whispered through the trees.
The Mirrorwood answered with silence.
The kind of silence that always felt just on the edge of listening.
He tried to count his breath.
Something Serenya had taught him, long ago.
Inhale.
"Anchor yourself."
Exhale.
"Find the edge of the storm."
He never could meditate like she did. But tonight... his breath came easy.
In.
Out.
He counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
On the fourth breath, something changed.
He felt it.
Like a pulse beneath the ground.
Not a noise. Not a voice.
A draw.
His chest tightened—not from fear, but from anticipation. Like the moment before steel hits steel, when instinct flares before thought.
His breath hitched slightly.
Serenya shifted in her sleep beside him, murmuring something too quiet to understand. Her fingers twitched where they rested over his forearm.
But he couldn't open his eyes.
He realized he hadn't moved in minutes.
And now—he couldn't.
A warmth gathered at the base of his spine.
Then higher.
Then behind his eyes.
Not heat like fire.
Not magic like what he'd felt in battle.
Something older.
Like the air before a thunderstorm.
Like the breath before a god speaks.
And then—
He saw it.
Even with his eyes closed.
The shimmer of dreamlight.
It began as a thread. A single golden line, etched across the black. A shimmer too faint to touch, yet too present to ignore.
It curled upward, like smoke made of silk.
Then another.
And another.
Soon, the space behind his eyes bloomed with cascading gold—a nebula of soft light, rising like dust through sunbeams.
He wanted to open his eyes.
But something held him.
No fear. No resistance.
Only surrender.
Only... falling.
He did not dream in color at first.
Only light.
Only the soft hush of water over stone, of breeze through leaves, of distant laughter.
He felt grass beneath his feet.
The warmth of sun on his face.
The distant scent of bread baking somewhere far off.
And somewhere—somewhere—the sound of a small child laughing.
Kaelen Veynar took one last breath in the tent beside the woman he loved—
And woke in a world not his own.
Kaelen woke to the sound of birdsong and the weight of a warm body tucked into his side.
For a long moment, he didn't open his eyes.
The air smelled like honeysuckle and bread. Sunlight spilled across his face—not the strange amber light of Vaeloria's warped forests or the gods' spectral visions, but something gentler. More alive. Real.
He exhaled slowly.
And the world breathed with him.
When he finally blinked his eyes open, everything around him moved with the softness of a memory.
The ceiling above him was timbered and arched, carved with swirling patterns of leaves and stars. Pale beams stretched overhead like the ribs of a ship. White curtains swayed lightly in the breeze spilling through an open window. The sound of the river hummed in the distance, slow and melodic.
He turned his head.
Serenya lay beside him.
She was on her back, one arm flung across the sheets, chest rising in peaceful rhythm. Her hair spilled across the pillow like silver ripples, tangled from sleep. A faint smile curved her lips, as if she were in the middle of a dream she didn't want to leave.
She looked younger somehow. Softer. Less carved by time, by sacrifice, by shadow.
She looked happy.
And for one breathless moment...
So did he.
The sheets were cool linen. The bed carved from smooth, dark wood. Morning light streamed through the open windows, painting long, golden bars across the stone floor.
He pushed himself up slowly.
His body didn't ache.
No blade hung on the wall.
No armor in sight.
The silence wasn't heavy with dread—it was calm. Natural. Alive with distant city sounds: a merchant calling down the road, the faint creak of a wagon wheel, the chiming of bells somewhere in the hills.
He looked down at his hands.
Scarred.
But only from work.
Calloused in a way that came from tools, not war.
From shaping things. Not destroying them.
A sudden voice broke the stillness.
"Papa!"
A small figure barreled into the room, arms flung wide, legs churning with reckless joy.
She was maybe four or five. Tiny, wild-haired, cheeks smudged with flour or dirt or both. Her tunic trailed past her knees. Her smile could have broken kingdoms.
Kaelen froze.
The child launched herself up onto the bed and into his arms like she'd done it a thousand times.
"I waited!" she declared proudly. "I waited a whole hour like mama said but then I couldn't anymore because the sun's too bright and the birds are too loud and I want honey bread!"
Kaelen stared at her.
His mouth opened—but no sound came.
She has Serenya's eyes.
She has my hands.
She is real.
She crawled into his lap and leaned her head against his chest with complete trust.
Serenya stirred beside him, stretching. Her eyes opened slowly, sleepy and amused.
"I told you she'd last until sunrise," she murmured, brushing a curl from the girl's face. "Barely."
Kaelen looked at her, words still caught in his throat.
"She... she's ours?"
Serenya smiled.
Not confused. Not surprised.
She reached up and touched his cheek, warm and soft.
"Of course she is. You named her."
"I did?"
"Ellira. After your sister."
The name struck something deep.
The little girl looked up at him, proud.
"That's me! And I'm hungry."
Kaelen laughed.
It escaped him before he could catch it. A rough, breathy sound that turned into a real laugh—deep, startled, and entirely unguarded.
His arms wrapped around the child almost on instinct.
And for the first time in what felt like centuries...
He didn't feel like a weapon.
He felt like a man.
Their home stood on the northern edge of the city, nestled into the curve of a quiet hillside where cobblestone paths gave way to green, sloping gardens and footbridges crossing narrow streams. Clusters of trees lined the streets, old and wide-branched, offering pockets of shade and wind-chime music when the breeze passed through.
The house itself was a craftsman's dream: stone foundation, timber frame, steep clay roof. Morning glories curled around the windows. A tiny herb garden bloomed in planters along the porch. Smoke drifted from the chimney with the comforting scent of bread and spice.
From the front step, Kaelen could see the city unfold like a painting:
A river ran through its heart, wide and slow, its waters dotted with shallow boats. White towers rose in the distance—not fortresses, but spires of observatories, windmills, and sun-catching arcane panels. Homes and shops lined the curved streets, built in gentle harmony with the surrounding hills.
To the west: a range of crystal-capped mountains, their snow-dusted peaks glowing faintly in the morning sun. He'd never seen them before. He didn't know their names.
To the south: the river curved out of sight, bordered by amber fields and dense woods.
It was a city he'd never heard of.
And it felt more like home than any place he'd ever known.
They had breakfast on the porch.
Honeyed bread. Sliced pears. Crumbled white cheese. Kaelen barely tasted it. His focus never left the girl sitting in his lap, giggling as she smeared jam on her cheeks.
Serenya moved around the kitchen with ease, humming softly.
A memory tried to surface—of tents, of battle, of things not said—but it slipped before it reached clarity.
All he knew was the warmth in his chest.
All he saw was this.
The breeze rolled off the hills soft as silk, brushing Kaelen's face where he sat on the porch. The scent of pine, bread, and sun-warmed clay mingled on the air. Somewhere, a wind chime sang with a voice like crystal.
He finished the last bite of honey bread, not entirely tasting it—his mind still floating in the warmth of something quieter than joy. Not euphoria. Not bliss.
Just... peace.
Beside him, little Ellira chattered as she tried to stack pear slices into an improbable tower on her plate, her tongue poking out in concentration.
"If I can balance seven," she whispered to herself, "then I'm queen of the fruit!"
Serenya sat at the table's edge, ankles crossed, sipping from a clay mug. The light touched her skin with a golden sheen. Her smile, when she looked at Kaelen, was content. Untouched by war or prophecy.
He hadn't spoken much yet. Couldn't. Not without cracking.
He wasn't ready for words. Not while this felt so real.
"She'll be like you," Serenya said, setting down her mug, watching their daughter. "Quiet until it matters."
Kaelen looked down at the girl and nodded faintly. He brushed a crumb from her cheek with his thumb.
"She already is."
The sound of footsteps and laughter carried up the path.
Serenya tilted her head with a knowing smile just before a familiar voice called out:
"Knock knock!"
Sylara.
She appeared around the corner, auburn hair braided back, cheeks sun-kissed and eyes alive. She wore a forest-green tunic, long and belted, with sleeves rolled past her elbows. She had the look of someone who'd already been up for hours, working, laughing, living.
And she wasn't alone.
Two children chased after her—twins, no more than six. A boy and a girl, both with wide shoulders and curious eyes, the unmistakable stamp of their father carved into their features.
"We come bearing chaos," Sylara warned as the kids barreled past her up the steps.
The twins squealed with joy at the sight of Ellira.
"Uncle Kaelen! Aunt Serenya!" they cried in unison before piling into his lap like a coordinated assault.
Kaelen grunted under the impact and managed a rare laugh as he hugged them both.
"They've grown again," Serenya said, setting her mug down.
"At this point I think they're part mountain," Sylara said, grinning. "And yes, before you ask, they've already eaten. A full breakfast. Twice."
She leaned in and kissed Serenya's cheek, then Kaelen's, brushing a hand fondly over his shoulder.
"Torwyn's already at the forge. He left early. Something about shaping a wedding set before lunch."
"You're letting him use the new molds?" Kaelen asked.
"He bribed me with spiced nuts and a neck rub," she said, eyes twinkling. "How could I refuse?"
"Treason," Serenya said with mock severity. "Forge-sharing without partner approval? Unthinkable."
They all chuckled.
And in the middle of them, the three children huddled together, heads bent, whispering about birds and tree-climbing and something called "honey traps."
Kaelen sat quietly, watching the scene unfold like it had always belonged to him. A porch full of life. A future full of warmth.
He didn't realize he was smiling again until Sylara caught his eye.
"You look good like this," she said softly. "Peace suits you."
He looked away.
"It's... unfamiliar."
"That's alright. We'll make it familiar."
Just as the laughter began to settle and the children drifted toward the garden gate, Elira appeared—walking up the path hand-in-hand with a tall woman Kaelen had never seen before and somehow already knew.
She wore a loose, sky-blue blouse and sun-leathered gloves. Her smile was easy. Her eyes knew the world and liked it anyway.
Elira was laughing—fully, deeply, like she hadn't in years.
She waved as she reached the porch.
"Tell me there's still bread," she called.
"Plenty," Serenya said, rising to pour her tea. "And it's sweet today."
Kaelen stood, slowly. Elira stepped up to him, and without hesitation, wrapped her arms around his neck.
"You're late to the forge," she said softly. "Torwyn's going to scowl until lunch."
"Let him," Kaelen replied, voice quiet.
She stepped back with a smile.
"I like this place," she said. "You don't look like you're carrying the sky on your back."
He wanted to answer. Wanted to say I feel like I left something behind. But the words caught behind his teeth.
Not yet. Let me have this a little longer.
As the others poured into the house, gathering plates and half-eaten fruit, Kaelen slipped back inside to clean up and ready for the forge.
His apron hung on a peg by the door.
The leather felt worn in all the right places. Like it knew his shape.
His hammer was already packed in a small satchel—weighty, familiar.
Serenya passed by behind him, brushing her hand along his lower back.
"I'll come by before noon," she said. "We've got new tinctures to test. I want your nose."
"You already have it," he said.
She smirked.
He kissed her.
And then—
He stepped out the door.
The sun had risen fully now.
The path to the forge cut through shaded trees and quiet shops. The smell of hot iron and kiln smoke drifted on the wind.
Kaelen walked alone.
But he didn't feel alone.
The forge stood near the river, its stone chimney rising between climbing ivy and copper gutters that gleamed in the sunlight. A wide wooden sign hung above the door, its surface etched with twin crossed hammers and an inscription that read:
VEYNAR & STONEFORGE – Tools, Craft, and Wares
Kaelen stepped into warmth and sound.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of steel, coal, and oak. The heat radiating from the twin forges felt familiar in a way that reached through the illusion and struck something primal inside him. But it didn't disturb him.
It comforted.
Torwyn stood at the main anvil, sleeves rolled, sweat beading down his arms. He didn't look up immediately—just kept striking with rhythmic, effortless precision. Sparks flared as the red-hot metal curled and shaped beneath the hammer.
Three strikes. Turn. Quench.
The hiss of steam filled the air.
"You're late," Torwyn said, grinning.
Kaelen smirked, dropping his satchel by the wall and stepping into the rhythm like he'd done it every day for ten years.
"I'm married with a child. I'm always late."
"Aye, well, keep showing up at this rate and I'll start charging you for forge time."
"You already do."
Torwyn grunted and tossed him a small pair of iron tongs. Kaelen caught them one-handed and walked to the second forge, setting the fire into a brighter blaze with a practiced pull of the bellows. The coals responded, glowing with a healthy, hungry red.
The next two hours passed in a kind of quiet, wordless dance.
They worked together like breath and heartbeat—fluid, knowing, unhurried.
Kaelen prepped billets and stoked the flames while Torwyn focused on detail work—shaping elegant dagger hilts with flowing filigree patterns and notched pommels for a matching scabbard. The wedding set. Not ceremonial weapons, but gifts of craft and tradition. Things built to last. Built to mean something.
"They're elves, aren't they?" Kaelen asked after a while, brushing shavings from the bench.
"Half-elves," Torwyn replied, squinting down the blade's spine. "He's from the cliffs outside Myrris, she's a healer from Southwell. Quiet folk. Shy as rabbits."
"They come to you for weapons?"
"Not for war. They want to keep them in their home. Tradition. Symbolism."
Kaelen nodded, folding a cloth over a warm blade.
"Better that than blood."
"Aye," Torwyn said, "but I'd still rather make shovels and hinges."
Kaelen chuckled.
"You say that like you weren't grinning when you etched the vinework into those hilts."
Torwyn arched a brow.
"They asked for vinework. I'm a craftsman, not a prophet."
"You're a romantic."
"Says the man who named his forge after a marriage."
Kaelen had no answer for that.
So he just smiled and turned back to the fire.
By noon, the final edge was honed, the blades polished and wrapped in black linen. Torwyn packed them into a carved wooden box and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Right," he said, slinging on his satchel. "I'll drop these at the market hall. You staying?"
"Serenya said she'd stop by."
"Take the day, then. You've earned it."
Kaelen gave a nod and watched his friend go, leaving behind the familiar creak of the floorboards and the quiet hiss of coals settling to rest.
He stood still for a moment.
Hands coated in soot. Shirt damp with sweat. Heart full of... something softer.
He stepped outside.
And saw her.
Serenya stood just beyond the forge, holding a folded basket of herbs in one arm, her other hand brushing her braid back over her shoulder. Her dress was simple—a soft linen, deep green with silver trim, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. She smiled when she saw him, and Kaelen forgot the scent of smoke. Forgot the way his lungs ached after a hard forge.
"You look like you built a mountain," she teased.
"Torwyn built the mountain," Kaelen replied. "I just held the tools."
"Lucky for you," she said, brushing a kiss to his cheek, "I have an easier task."
"Oh?"
"I need a second opinion on a new tincture. Come on."
She reached for his hand.
And without a word, he took it.
They walked side by side through winding paths lined with silverleaf trees and sun-bathed flowerbeds. The Apothecary sat near the town square, just beyond a narrow bridge strung with soft blue ribbons. Children laughed in the fountain nearby. Bells rang faintly from the clocktower.
The shop was built of weathered oak and goldenstone. Ivy curled around its porch. A wooden sign hung overhead, painted with soft white letters:
ASH & LIGHT – Healing Arts, Lore, & Wonders
When they stepped inside, the scent of rosemary and citrus filled the air.
It was busy, but not frantic.
Sylara stood at the counter, carefully weighing dried leaves into a scale while two of the twins—her boy and Kaelen's daughter—stacked tiny glass jars behind her like an improvised tower.
"You're making chaos again," Serenya warned.
"I'm expanding their minds," Sylara replied, raising a brow. "Also, they're learning spatial geometry."
"They're learning how to drop glassware."
"Same thing."
Kaelen smiled as he passed, watching as his daughter tried to catch a falling vial—and missed.
It didn't break.
Because Elira caught it mid-air with a practiced hand.
She stepped out from behind a curtain, apron tied over a pale blouse, sleeves rolled. Her eyes were soft. Focused.
Behind her, her partner stacked bundles of herbs into the drying racks with patient precision.
"Kaelen," Elira greeted, nodding. "You're just in time. We need someone to test the immunity tonic."
"He's already immune to everything," Serenya said. "Except sarcasm."
"That one's terminal," Sylara added.
"Untreatable," Elira agreed.
Kaelen sat on the stool near the open window while Serenya set two small bottles on the table in front of him. One was pale green, the other golden with flecks of floating herbs.
"Taste both," she said. "Tell me which doesn't make your mouth burn."
"Is one of them supposed to burn?"
"Of course not," she said, smiling sweetly. "That would be irresponsible."
He tried the green one.
His mouth burned.
He said nothing.
"That one," he rasped, "is perfect."
Serenya laughed.
So did the others.
The sound filled the shop.
Filled the air.
Filled something in him he hadn't known was still hollow.
He spent the rest of the afternoon helping Sylara grind herbs into powders while the children ran in and out with deliveries. Elira handed out dried lavender bundles to the elderly. Serenya explained frostroot applications to a pair of apprentices.
And Kaelen—
Kaelen watched it all.
Quiet.
Not because he didn't belong.
But because he did.
And the ache of that truth was beginning to settle behind his ribs like a secret he couldn't name.
Evening poured like warm honey over the city.
The sun had slipped low beyond the crystalline peaks, casting their edges in firelight. A soft breeze curled through the winding streets, rich with the scent of roasted almonds, blooming lilacs, and something sweet Kaelen couldn't quite place—like sugared stonefruit warmed by the day's heat.
The town square had awakened into something alive.
Not loud. Not riotous.
Just full.
Music fluttered from a raised wooden platform nestled beneath the arms of a silverleaf tree strung with lanterns. A group of four played with cheerful abandon: lute, fiddle, hand drum, and flute. The rhythm was light and rolling—not meant to stir passion, but contentment. Notes that fit the shape of the evening like a hand in a glove.
All around the square, people gathered. Locals. Merchants. Children. Craftsfolk in soot-smudged aprons. Gardeners in leaf-printed tunics. The aroma of open-fire cooking wafted in from food carts along the square's edge—garlic-seared vegetables, spiced meat skewers, baked flatbread brushed with honey-butter.
Kaelen sat on the worn stone ledge at the edge of a fountain, Serenya tucked against his side, his arm draped around her shoulders.
Her head rested against his collarbone, her eyes closed not in sleep—but in serenity.
He felt the rhythm of her breath.
He could have stayed like this forever.
The children were playing nearby, darting between benches, chasing firelights in jars. His daughter—Ellira—had a crown of braided vines on her head and a smear of blackberry juice across her cheek. She carried a ribbon wand someone had gifted her and twirled with it like a dancer lost in her own magic.
Kaelen chuckled as she fell onto the grass beside one of Sylara's twins—he couldn't tell which anymore, they were always trading names and roles—and the two began plotting the next "performance" with dramatic seriousness.
He leaned down to Serenya, whispering:
"That one's yours."
"She has your eyebrows," she whispered back.
"She has your dramatics."
"Untrue. That's all Sylara doing."
Serenya smiled without opening her eyes.
"She's perfect," Kaelen said quietly.
"She is," Serenya replied. "Because we weren't."
Kaelen didn't speak after that.
The ache in his chest was not grief, not regret.
It was wanting.
So deep and quiet it terrified him.
Nearby, Torwyn and Sylara sat together on a stone bench, cups in hand. His forge-stained hands were unusually clean, though he still wore his apron folded at his waist. Sylara had traded her work leathers for a silver-threaded tunic, her hair pinned up with a sprig of blueflower. They weren't laughing now—just talking softly, their foreheads nearly touching, sharing something too gentle for words.
He still looks at her like she's the first light he ever saw, Kaelen thought.
And then he smiled, because she looked at him the same way.
Not the way people look when they're in love.
The way people look when they have remained in love—through all the quiet years no one writes stories about.
A cup was pressed into Kaelen's free hand.
Elira.
"This one's safe," she said with a smirk. "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"It's wine. With berries. And a flower whose name I forgot. Might cause happiness."
"Dangerous."
"Exceedingly."
She grinned, then turned—and Kaelen watched as her partner pulled her toward the open space near the musicians. She protested with laughter, but didn't resist. Her hair shimmered in the lantern light as they began to move together.
Their dance wasn't practiced. Or elegant.
It was sincere.
And it was enough to make something inside Kaelen's chest ache.
Not from jealousy.
But from the part of him that had never quite believed Elira would find someone who could carry her light without being burned.
Now he saw that she had.
And he was grateful.
The music swelled.
Laughter rose like sparks. Someone handed out sugared chestnuts in paper cones. Another poured a sweet liquor over carved ice and passed the cups around. Smoke drifted lazily from one of the far braziers where orange-glazed fowl roasted on a spit, crisping in its own crackling oil.
Kaelen took a sip from his cup.
The taste surprised him.
Not bitter like most wines.
It was warm and floral, with a smooth weight and a strange undertone of memory—like biting into something he didn't know he missed.
He closed his eyes.
The rhythm of the city moved around him like water.
Conversations layered over music. Footsteps merged with laughter. The scent of fried dough, citrus peels, smoke, and night blossoms curled together until they were indistinguishable.
Serenya shifted beside him.
Her hand found his, fingers slipping between his with ease.
"Are you happy right now?" she asked, her voice barely audible above the music.
He opened his eyes.
She was looking at him.
Not teasing.
Not testing.
Asking.
And he didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said.
And it was true.
In this moment—in this place—he had never felt more at peace.
"Good," she whispered, closing her eyes again. "That's all I wanted."