The frozen heart

Chapter 33: Where Silence Speaks

The evening settled in slowly, casting long shadows through the cracked windows of the abandoned castle. Anne sat in the main hall, wrapped in her arms, her breath curling visibly in the frigid air. She stared blankly at the remnants of what must have once been a grand fireplace—cold now, with only the faintest memory of warmth lingering in the charred wood. The room around her seemed vast, and the silence oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of old stone settling.

Kaiden had been silent for most of the day, only appearing when necessary, keeping his distance. She could feel his presence, though. It lingered, heavy, like a shadow that refused to fade. She shivered again, pulling her thin cloak tighter around herself, but the cold was relentless, seeping into her bones.

Suddenly, the sound of quiet footsteps echoed through the hall, pulling Anne's attention toward the entrance. Kaiden appeared from the darkness, his figure moving like a wraith, almost blending into the shadows with his dark cloak. His mask still obscured his face, and though his eyes were cold, they softened briefly when they flicked over her trembling form.

Without a word, Kaiden crossed the room, his gaze briefly meeting hers before shifting to the hearth. He crouched down by the fireplace and, in a fluid motion, began gathering bits of old wood that had been left scattered nearby. His movements were efficient, methodical, but there was an unexpected gentleness in the way he handled the fragile, crumbling pieces of wood, as if he were performing an act he hadn't done in a very long time.

"I should have noticed sooner," Kaiden murmured, his voice breaking the stillness.

"The cold. I don't... feel it anymore."

Anne blinked, taken aback by the admission. She watched him as he arranged the wood, his back to her. There was something unsettling about how easily he moved through the task.

He struck a flint, and after a few tries, a spark caught, igniting the dry wood. The flames licked hungrily at the kindling, slowly growing, their warm glow illuminating the room in a flickering light. The shadows danced across the stone walls, transforming the cold, empty space into something almost alive.

Kaiden remained crouched in front of the fire for a moment longer, staring into the flames as if lost in thought, his mask hiding whatever emotion might have crossed his face. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he stood and moved silently to sit across from Anne, the fire casting a warm halo around him. The flickering light played off his white hair, making it glow faintly in the dim room. He didn't say anything, but his presence felt different—less like the terrifying assassin she had come to know, and more like the boy she had once protected. The boy she had tried to save.

Anne felt the warmth slowly returning to her limbs, the cold retreating, but it did nothing to ease the tension between them. They sat in silence for what felt like hours, both staring at the flames, the crackling of the wood the only sound between them.

After a while, Anne's gaze drifted away from the fire, settling on Kaiden. His mask, his posture, the way he stared into the flames as if they held answers—he seemed so distant, so unreachable. She felt a pang in her chest, a longing to bridge the gap between them. To understand what he had become in the years since she had been taken from him.

Kaiden stood near the arched window, the moon light filtering through fractured glass and casting jagged shadows across the room. His mask, an intricate piece of dark metal, hid his expression, leaving only his eyes visible—sharp and unreadable. The silence of the castle pressed around them, broken only by the faint rustle of wind outside, as if the very stone walls were holding their breath.

"You're free to go anywhere you like within the castle walls," he said at last, his voice muffled but firm behind the mask. The weight of his gaze fell on her, assessing, and distant all at once. He turned slightly, enough that Anne could see the tension in his posture, the way his gloved hand rested on the window ledge, fingers curled tightly as if holding back something unspoken.