Caelus didn’t respond immediately, the gravity of her words holding him in place. His throat felt tight, as though any attempt to speak might shatter the delicate moment. Instead, he simply looked at her, his expression softening from its usual guarded edge. Her face was a mixture of resolve and vulnerability, a mask of composure barely concealing the storm beneath.

He let the silence stretch, heavy but purposeful, giving her the space to continue if she wished. It was an unspoken understanding—she had bared something significant, and he wouldn’t rush to fill the void with empty reassurances. Instead, his gaze held hers, steady and unwavering, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight she carried.

Inside, a whirl of emotions churned. Her words had peeled back a layer of himself he hadn’t expected to confront, forcing him to reckon with not only her pain but also his role in it. Yet he knew this wasn’t his moment to speak—it was hers. So he remained silent, waiting, listening, and ready to carry whatever came next.

Riven’s gaze turned distant, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of lantern light, yet unfocused as if piercing through the fabric of time itself. Her lips parted, the words slow to come, as though dredged from a place she didn’t dare visit often. “Before all this... before the powers, the armor, the battles…” she began, her voice a fragile whisper barely audible over the night’s stillness. “I wasn’t anyone important. Just some… person trying to survive. Trying to matter in a world that didn’t care.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and raw, carrying the weight of long-buried wounds. Her hands tightened around the edges of her cloak, her knuckles whitening as though it was the only thing anchoring her to the moment. Her breathing grew uneven, and she pressed her lips together, but it wasn’t enough to stop the crack in her voice.

“And I gave up,” she said, her words splintering under the force of her confession. A bitter laugh followed, dry and devoid of humor, as if mocking herself for the weakness she felt. “Even in that small, meaningless life, I couldn’t get it right. I couldn’t be strong enough or smart enough or… enough.”

Her shoulders quaked, though she held herself tightly, gripping her knees as if her own embrace was the only shield against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “And now,” she continued, her voice wavering, “with everything else—this Champion stuff, these memories—it’s like… like I’m disappearing. Like I’m losing what little of me there was left to lose.”

Her words trailed off, leaving behind an aching silence that seemed to echo in the stillness of the night. The admission was raw, stripped of any pretense or armor. It was a crack in the walls she had built around herself, and through that crack poured years of doubt, pain, and a longing she couldn’t quite articulate.

Caelus felt his chest tighten. He’d heard fragments of his companions’ lives before they became Champions, but this? This was different. Riven’s voice carried the weight of wounds that had never healed, only buried under layers of regret.

He saw not the hardened, resourceful Champion she had become but the vulnerable, fractured person beneath it all. And in that moment, he felt an unshakable need to remind her of something she couldn’t see in herself.

“You didn’t fail,” he said quietly, his voice steady but brimming with conviction. “You survived. Maybe the world didn’t care about you back then, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t matter. It just means the world got it wrong.”

Riven flinched slightly, her hands relaxing their iron grip on her cloak. She didn’t look at him, but the tension in her posture softened just enough for him to notice.

Caelus leaned back against the tree, his gaze lifting to the stars above. “And this? The Champion stuff? These memories? They’re part of us, yeah. But they’re not all of us. They don’t define who we are or erase who we were. You’re still you, Riven. And no amount of battles or burdens can take that away—not unless you let them.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move, her face still hidden by the shadows of her hood. Then, slowly, she turned her head toward him, her dark eyes catching the faint glow of the lantern light. They shimmered—not with tears, but with something softer, something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

“Maybe,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. There was no certainty in the word, but there was no rejection either. It was a fragile thread of possibility, a tiny crack in the walls she had built.

Riven shifted slightly on the branch, her dark eyes flicking down to meet Caelus’s steel-gray ones. For a moment, her usual guarded expression softened, curiosity mingling with her underlying sorrow. “How about you?” she asked quietly, her voice devoid of its usual edge.

Caelus raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint, awkward smile. “What about me?” he asked, feigning lightness, though the weight of her tone didn’t escape him.

“Your past life,” Riven clarified, her eyes flickering toward him before darting away again. She leaned back against the sturdy trunk of the tree, the rough bark pressing against her cloak. Her posture seemed nonchalant, but the subtle tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve betrayed a deeper vulnerability. “Don’t you ever feel any… regret? Sadness? Anger?”

Her voice carried a quiet intensity, like she was bracing herself for his answer, and perhaps for what it might reveal about her own unspoken fears. The question hung in the air between them, as fragile and heavy as a spider’s web glistening in the moonlight.

The question hung in the cool night air, a quiet weight that seemed to press against them both. Caelus’s blue eyes dropped to the grass beneath him, his fingers absently brushing against the soft blades. The faint glow of lantern light filtering from the distant tavern caught the contours of his face, painting fleeting shadows that deepened the quiet reflection in his expression.

He sat there for a moment, his body relaxed against the sturdy trunk of the tree, but his mind clearly elsewhere. His gaze traced patterns in the earth, as if the swaying blades of grass might offer answers he didn’t yet have. Finally, he exhaled softly and shook his head, the motion subtle yet resolute.

“This life…” His voice was calm, steady, carrying the weight of his sincerity. “It means more to me than the one I left behind.” A faint smile tugged at his lips—not triumphant, but reflective, as though he was savoring a truth he hadn’t needed to speak aloud until now. “I died without regrets.”

The simplicity of the statement settled between them like a stone dropped into still water, its ripples spreading outward. Yet his tone wasn’t boastful or dismissive; it carried the quiet peace of someone who had made their choices, faced the end, and found solace in what he’d left behind. His hand lingered on the grass, grounding him, as if this new life had rooted him more deeply than the last ever had.

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Riven scoffed softly, the sound sharp, almost biting, but there was a weight beneath it—something unspoken that twisted the edges of her tone. “No regrets? Good for you,” she muttered, her voice low but laced with an edge of bitterness. She shifted her position, extending one leg along the branch, her boot catching the faint glow of the lantern light as it dangled lazily in the cool night air.

Her dismissive tone might have fooled someone less perceptive, but Caelus caught the flicker in her dark eyes—a glimmer that betrayed her words. Was it envy? He didn’t think so. It was something deeper, like a quiet longing for the peace she imagined he had. The soft sway of the tree branch beneath her and the rustle of leaves filled the silence she left behind, but the tension in her form spoke louder than the stillness of the night.

Her gaze didn’t meet his, fixed instead on some far-off point, as though the stars might offer answers she couldn’t find within herself. Yet her scoff, despite its sharpness, lingered in the air—not so much a rejection of his sentiment, but a reflection of the distance between his peace and her turmoil.

Silence settled between them like a heavy fog once again—dense, pressing, yet not entirely suffocating. It carried a weight that neither of them seemed willing to break at first. Riven shifted slightly on the branch, drawing her other leg back up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself tightly as though trying to shield what little of her was left from the world. Her cloak pooled around her like a shroud, hiding her small frame in the moonlight.

When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet that Caelus almost missed it. “I was useless,” she murmured, her words barely above a whisper, but the rawness in them struck like a blade. “Boring. Dull. Just… another face in a world that didn’t notice, didn’t care.” She exhaled shakily, the faintest tremor in her breath betraying the emotion she tried so hard to suppress. “Life felt meaningless. Like I was just… there. Taking up space.”

Her gaze remained fixed on the ground below, her dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. When she spoke again, there was a bitter edge to her words, though they faltered near the end. “So why am I the one who gets reborn as some ‘hero’?” She let out a scoff, but it was weaker this time—a hollow sound, as if even her cynicism lacked conviction. “I don’t get it.”

For a moment, her shoulders hunched, and she shrank further into herself, the lines of her figure drawn tight with frustration and something deeper—something that ran colder and sharper. It wasn’t just doubt she felt; it was disbelief in herself, in her worth. The kind of disbelief that had been carved into her soul over a lifetime.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as her scoff faded into the quiet of the night. And in that fragile silence, it felt as though she was waiting—for an answer, for reassurance, or maybe just for someone to prove her wrong.

Caelus watched her in the dim light, his mind scrambling for something meaningful to say. Words felt insufficient against the raw edge of her confession, as though anything he offered would shatter against the weight of her pain. So instead, he leaned back against the tree, the bark rough against his shoulders, and exhaled slowly, letting the night air fill the space between them. His gaze lifted to the stars for a brief moment before returning to her.

“I really appreciate you being on the team, Riven,” he said at last. His voice was quiet, but the sincerity in it was unmistakable, carrying more weight than he intended.

Riven shifted slightly at his words, her dark eyes flicking toward him from beneath her hood. She tilted her head, studying him with an expression that hovered somewhere between skepticism and surprise. “Pfft,” she scoffed softly, the sound sharp but devoid of venom. The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but not entirely dismissive, either.

Still, her gaze drifted downward again, and her scoff dissolved into the cool night air. Her eyes flickered with something unspoken, hidden beneath layers of sadness. Gratitude, perhaps—small, fleeting, almost imperceptible, but there. She hugged her knees closer to her chest, letting her chin rest atop them.

Caelus hesitated, his blue eyes tracing the horizon for a moment as if searching for courage in the stars. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost a whisper, as though the memory was too sacred to be spoken aloud. “I saved a little boy,” he said, his tone steady but carrying the weight of something profound. “It cost me my life, but… it was the best decision I ever made.”

He paused, his gaze lowering to the grass beneath his fingers. His hand absently brushed over the blades, grounding himself in the present as he ventured further into the past. “For the first time, I felt like my life was worth something. Like I’d done something that mattered,” he continued, his words laced with quiet intensity. “I wasn’t a hero before that moment. Not by any stretch. I was just… me. Living day to day, trying to get by. But when I saw that boy, terrified and alone, I didn’t even think. I just acted.”

A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And in that one moment, everything made sense. All the struggles, the failures—they didn’t matter anymore. Because for that boy, I was enough. I gave him a future, even if it meant losing my own.”

His voice caught slightly, and he cleared his throat, leaning back against the tree. “It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t some grand, legendary sacrifice. But it was mine. And for the first time in my life, I felt… at peace.”

He glanced up at Riven, his expression soft but unwavering. “I guess that’s why I don’t have regrets. I died knowing I’d finally done something right. Something that mattered.” His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning yet strangely light, as if they carried a quiet, unshakable truth.

Riven’s gaze softened at Caelus’s words, the sharp edges of her demeanor momentarily giving way to something quieter, more vulnerable. Her dark eyes, usually guarded, seemed to glimmer faintly in the pale moonlight. She rested her chin on her arms, which were still wrapped around her knees, the tension in her frame easing ever so slightly.

“Well,” she murmured after a long pause, her voice low and tinged with a trace of sardonic humor. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though it lacked warmth. “Let’s just say I didn’t go out so heroically. No saving anybody, no grand sacrifice, none of that noble stuff.” Her tone was light, almost teasing, but it couldn’t mask the undercurrent of bitterness beneath the words.

She let her head tilt slightly, her hood slipping back enough to reveal the faintest outline of her features. The dim light cast shadows across her face, highlighting the faint tremor in her lips before she pressed them into a thin line. “If anything, my death was… predictable. Mundane. Just another piece of meaningless existence snuffed out. No one even noticed. Or cared.”

Her gaze dropped to her knees, her arms tightening around herself as if shielding her from a memory she couldn’t quite shake. For a moment, the faint smile she’d conjured disappeared entirely, replaced by something raw and unspoken. Then, as if realizing she’d said too much, she gave a small scoff and looked away, the walls going back up. “Guess I’m not exactly cut from the same cloth as you, huh?” she added with forced levity, though her voice wavered slightly at the edges.

Caelus shook his head and hesitated, a question lingering on the tip of his tongue like a fragile thread he wasn’t sure he should pull. But the weight of Riven’s words, the quiet pain etched into her features, pulled him in. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and cautious, like stepping onto thin ice. “Then… how did you die?”

The question hung in the cool night air between them, fragile and hesitant. For a moment, Riven didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the stars bled faintly into the shadowed earth. Her fingers twitched against her knees, and the muscles in her jaw tightened ever so slightly.

Her smile slowly faded, like the last flicker of daylight sinking beneath the horizon. It was replaced by something far emptier—a pained, faraway look that made her seem almost untethered from the present. For a moment, it was as though the weight of the past had pulled her into a place where the world around her ceased to exist. The silence that settled between them felt heavy, almost suffocating, as if the air itself was holding its breath in the wake of the rawness she'd just shared.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she offered a smile again, but it was different this time. It didn’t reach her eyes, which remained shadowed with a sorrow too deep to mask. The smile was hollow, brittle—framed by a sadness that seemed to stretch far beyond the moment. She chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it, only the sharp sting of self-deprecation. Her gaze, distant and unfocused, stared into the void beyond them, as if searching for something—anything—that might give meaning to it all, that might explain the endless cycle of suffering and despair she had endured.

“What do you think?”