The alcove was cold, the wind finding its way through the ancient stones, whistling softly through the narrow gaps, but I did not feel it. I sat beside Kaelen on the stone bench, his hand in mine, the weight of my confession still hanging in the air between us like a physical presence. I had told him who I was: Selene Astrid, the Saint, the woman who had died on a battlefield and been given a second chance. The words had come out in a flood, tumbling over each other, desperate to be free after so long in captivity.
Now they were gone, and there was only silence.
Kaelen had not spoken.
