The world had given Kael a second chance, and he was terrified of it.
It wasn't the kind of terror that came with a drawn blade or a dark alley. It was a quieter thing, a fragile fear that lived in the hollow of his chest. It was the terror of holding a perfect, priceless thing in hands you knew to be clumsy. He felt it now, watching Lyra from the doorway of their small home, the afternoon sun spilling around her like liquid gold.
She was in her garden, humming a tune that had no name but was as familiar to him as his own breath. Her fingers, smudged with dark soil, moved with a gentle certainty, tending to the stubborn roots of her moonpetal blossoms. The light caught the auburn strands of her hair, the same impossible shade he remembered from a life ago, a world away. A small, jagged scar, white against the tan of her skin, sat just above her left eyebrow. He knew its story in this life—a tumble from a tree as a girl—but his soul remembered a different story, one of a bicycle accident on a summer street paved with asphalt, not cobblestone.
He'd died once already, chasing her into the sterile silence of a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and despair. He had welcomed the end. But the end had not welcomed him. Instead, it had spat him out here, into this body, this world of casual magic and sharp steel. The body belonged to a man named Kaelen, a man who had died from the backlash of a failed cultivation, a man who had possessed a wife he did not deserve and did not appreciate.
Kael appreciated her enough for two lifetimes.
He watched the gentle curve of her spine as she leaned over to pluck a weed, the unconscious smile on her lips as a sun-wasp buzzed lazily past her ear. Every detail was a masterpiece; every moment a theft from a fate that had already claimed her once. His own cultivation was a joke, his Arcane Core a flickering candle in a world of bonfires. He was at the very bottom of the ladder, the Arcana Awakening realm, a state most children grew out of by their teens. But he didn't care. Power was meaningless. He had what mattered.
"You're staring again," Lyra said, not turning around. Her voice was like warm honey, and it settled the restless tremor in his soul. "Am I growing a second head?"
"I was just admiring the view," he replied, his own voice sounding rougher than he'd intended. He stepped out of the doorway, the worn leather of his boots making no sound on the soft grass.
She finally turned, wiping a stray strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a smudge of dirt in its place. Her eyes, the color of a forest floor dappled with sunlight, crinkled at the corners. "The view is a half-weeded patch of dirt and a husband who looks like he's trying to solve the riddle of the cosmos."
He closed the distance between them, his hand coming up to gently wipe the smudge from her brow. His fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the line of the scar. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. In this, there was peace. A quiet so profound it felt like a defiance against the screaming chaos of the universe.
Later, they sat at their small, hand-carved table as twilight painted the sky in shades of bruised purple and soft orange. The meal was simple—a hearty stew and bread still warm from the oven. For Kael, it was a feast. Every shared glance, every brush of their hands as they reached for the water jug, was more precious than any emperor's banquet.
"Tomorrow," Lyra said, her voice soft in the growing dark, "is a special day."
Kael's heart gave a familiar, painful lurch. Their anniversary. In his first life, Elena's last anniversary had been spent listening to the rhythmic beep of a machine that counted down the seconds she had left.
He swallowed, forcing the memory down. "I haven't forgotten."
A playful light entered her eyes, a spark he cherished. "Good. Because I have a request. A gift."
"Anything," he said, and he meant it with the conviction of a dying man's last prayer.
"I want a Starlight Petal," she said, her expression earnest.
Kael blinked. A Starlight Petal grew only on the Sunstone Cliffs, a dangerous, day-long journey. Before he could respond, a thought struck him. He reached into the small pouch at his belt, his fingers closing around a piece of smooth, cool wood.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he said, pulling his hand out and placing the object on the table between them. "I was by the river this morning, gathering herbs, and I found the perfect piece of wood. I made this for you."
It was a hairpin. Simple, but carved with a careful, loving hand. The riverwood had a dark, rich grain, and he had spent hours smoothing it with a shard of glass until it was silky to the touch, shaping its gentle curve. "Can you consider this the anniversary gift?" he asked, teasing her, a faint smile touching his lips.
Lyra's eyes widened as she picked it up, her fingers tracing its smooth surface. A genuine, unrestrained joy lit up her face, a light so bright it stole his breath. But she quickly schooled her expression into one of mock seriousness.
"No," she said resolutely, a cute pout forming on her lips. She held the hairpin to her chest protectively. "This is just a pre-anniversary gift. I still want my flower." But she couldn't hide the happiness dancing in her eyes, a pair of beautiful oceans reflecting his own adoration back at him. She slipped the hairpin into her hair, the dark wood a stark, lovely contrast against the auburn strands.
He chuckled, a sound that felt surprisingly natural. He saw the feigned innocence in her eyes, the loving deception behind her request. He would play along. He would climb a thousand cliffs for her.
He reached across the table and took her hand. "A single Starlight Petal," he said, his gaze locked with hers.
"The most perfect one you can find," she clarified.
He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "I'll leave at dawn. And I'll be back by evening tomorrow." He looked at her, at the new hairpin nestled in her hair, and felt a moment of perfect, terrifying peace. "I promise."