Page 17 of Crown of Storm and Silence
I watch,transfixed by disbelief and wonder, as she walks toward the river with a wooden bucket in her free hand. Her movements are careful, protective, safeguarding the precious cargo she carries. There's something different about her—a softness I don't remember, a contentment that speaks of peace found in simple domesticity.
She looks…free.
The word lodges in my throat, sharp and painful, carrying with it the weight of everything I am not, everything I can never be for her. Free from the shadows that follow my footsteps like hungry ghosts. Free from the particular burden that comes from being loved by something that devours light and calls it sustenance. Free from waking each morning wondering if today will be the day her husband's darkness finally consumes what little goodness remains in the world. This quiet life, this simple existence bathed in sunlight, I can never truly touch—it's everything I could never give her, everything she needed to become whole. And the cruelest part? She's achieved this peacewhile carrying the child I gave her, building this new life with the last gift I offered, without knowing it would be my farewell.
I should leave. Should turn around and walk back to my camp and let the realm burn while she raises our child in the safety of anonymity. Should return to the Shadow Court and embrace whatever political disaster awaits, let her live this borrowed peace with her stolen freedom.
But as she kneels by the river's edge, lowering the bucket into the flowing water, I find myself stepping forward without conscious thought. The shadows around me stir in response to her proximity, reaching toward her with the ravenous need of starving things.
"Nesilhan."
Her name escapes my lips as a prayer, carrying across the distance with unmistakable clarity. She freezes, her shoulders tensing, but doesn't turn around immediately.
I step closer, the hood of my cloak falling away as shadows writhe around me in restless anticipation. "Nesilhan, it's me."
She straightens slowly and turns, her Molten gold eyes finding mine across the space between us. For a moment, just a moment, I think I see a flicker of something—confusion, perhaps recognition—before her brow furrows in polite irritation.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice carrying a slight edge of annoyance, "but my name is Elif. You must have me confused with someone else. This is the second time today someone has called me by that name."
The words slice through me like consecrated steel through shadow, each syllable carving deeper into my soul. Elif. Not Nesilhan—the name that once fell from my lips like a prayer, like a promise, like the only word that mattered in the darkness. Elif. A stranger's name for the woman who used to breathe my name against my skin in moments of surrender. She's not just lost tome—she's become someone else entirely, someone who never knew what it felt like to trace my scars and call them beautiful.
Second time today?But the thought is immediately consumed by something far more primal, far more urgent. She's here. She's alive. She's carrying my child, and she doesn't know who the fuck I am.
"No," I say, stepping closer, my voice hoarse with disbelief and mounting panic. The word tears from my throat like a battle cry, like a denial of reality itself. "No, it's me, hatun. It's Kaan. Your fucking husband." The endearment falls from my lips like a sacred thing, heavy with memory and fervent hope. I search her face for any flicker of recognition, any ghost of the woman who once whispered that same word back to me in the darkness. Hatun. My lady. My heart. My everything. How can she not remember? How can she look at me—at the man who worshipped every breath she took, and see nothing but a stranger?
Her eyes widen slightly, but not with recognition—with growing discomfort. She takes a step backward, one hand moving protectively to her belly, and the gesture sends a bolt of possessive fury through my chest. That's my child she's protecting. Mine.
"I…I’m sorry, but I don't know who you are. I think there's been some mistake."
"Mistake?" The word comes out strangled, shadows beginning to writhe around my feet in response to the chaos tearing through me. "There's no fucking mistake. You're my wife. That's my child you're carrying."
I move closer, frantic now, my hand reaching toward the swell of her stomach with the urgent need of a starving man reaching for bread. "How far along are you? When did you?—"
"Don't touch me!" she snaps, jerking away from my reaching hand with such violence that she nearly stumbles. Her eyes arewide with alarm now, her breathing quick and shallow. "I don't know you! Stay away from me!"
The terror in her voice, the way she flinches from my touch as if I'm poison made flesh—it's a blade twisted between my ribs and carved slowly upward to my heart. This woman, who once melted beneath my hands and whispered my name in the darkness, who used to seek my touch like a flower turning toward sunlight, now recoils from me as if I carry plague.
This woman, who bore the blood bond that tied our souls together in ways that transcended flesh, looks at me like I'm the monster I have become. The monster she always feared I would become. And she's right to fear me. I am exactly the nightmare she should run from. But once, just once, she saw something worth loving in the darkness.
"Nesilhan, please—" My voice cracks on her name, anguish bleeding through the carefully constructed walls I've built around my heart. The sound that emerges is barely human, raw and broken and pleading. "It's me. It's your husband. You know me." The words feel hollow even as I speak them, because the truth is written in her terrified eyes: she doesn't know me.
"Help!" she calls out, her voice rising in panic. "Someone help me!"
The devastation crashes over me in waves that threaten to drag me under and never let me surface again. This isn't rejection—this is genuine terror of a stranger. This isn't the calculated cruelty of a woman choosing to forget—this is the raw fear of someone who truly believes herself in mortal danger. She looks at me without recognition, doesn't recognize my voice, has no memory of the way I used to trace patterns on her skin in the afterglow of passion.
"Help! Please!" she shouts again, backing toward the village, her hand pressed protectively over the swell of our child.
"Enough."
The voice comes from behind me, soft but carrying absolute authority. I turn to see a small figure stepping out from the shadows where she'd been watching—silver hair catching the afternoon light, green eyes ancient with knowledge and sorrow.
Banu.
Nesilhan's loyal little fairy. The one who was always whispering in her ear, always scheming, always protecting her with fierce devotion. In the months of darkness that consumed me after she fled, I never once considered where the fairy had gone. I assumed she'd returned to her realm, washing her hands of the chaos her interference had caused.
But here she is, watching this nightmare unfold with an expression that speaks of terrible knowledge.
The fairy looks between us, her expression carefully neutral, then nods slightly toward the village. "She goes by Elif now," she says quietly, her words deliberate and meaningful, her eyes trying to communicate something urgent about maintaining the cover that keeps Nesilhan safe.
