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The day after the circus left felt wrong in the way quiet rooms feel wrong after shouting.
Shandrea noticed it in the small things first.
In the way the castle corridors carried sound too cleanly, like the stones themselves were holding their breath. In the way the banners along the upper halls barely stirred, though the windows were open to the sea wind. In the way no one quite looked at her for longer than necessary.
Six months without the crown, and still the kingdom did not quite know what to do with her.
She did not quite know what to do with herself, either.
The ocean called to her that morning—not in words, never in words, but in that low, familiar pull behind her ribs. It had always been like that near the shoreline. The voices were louder there. Not cruel, not kind. Just… present. Like memory pressed too close to the skin, till it suffocated the lungs.
Today they felt especially restless.
Or maybe that was just her.
She found Owain in the outer training yard, though “training” was generous. It was one of those lazy days the kingdom had been drifting through lately—no formal drills, no polished formations. Just knights scattered loosely, armor half-fastened, helms off, the sharp edge of duty softened by the mild spring air.
Owain stood apart anyway.
He always did.
Even relaxed—if the word could be used for a man who had never once in her memory let his shoulder drop—he carried himself like a drawn blade. The golden lion helm gleamed in the pale sun, its sculpted mane catching light in sharp, clean edges. His armor was on, of course. It was always on.
But today his shoulders were lower.
Not soft.
Never soft.
Just… less braced for impact.
Shandrea hovered at the edge of the yard longer than she meant to.
Her hands twisted together in the folds of her sleeves.
Say it.
Say it now.
Say it before you lose the nerve.
The ocean pulled at her bones.
She stepped forward.
“Owain?”
He turned at once.
Always attentive. Always immediate.
“Yes, my que—” He stopped himself, just slightly. A microscopic pause. “Shandrea?”
Six months later, and it still caught sometimes.
Something in her chest pinched.
“Can we—” Her voice snagged. She cleared her throat softly. “Can we walk? I… I need to speak with you. Privately.”
A beat of stillness.
The lion’s carved face stared back at her, unreadable. “…Of course.”
No suspicion in his voice. No warmth, either. Just the steady, even tone of a man who had built his entire life out of discipline and silence. A maelstrom stirred in Shandrea’s stomach as she turned to walk.
⊹₊‧𖦹‧₊⊹
The walk down to the shore was… awkward.
Painfully.
The path wound from the castle grounds through low grass and pale stone, the ocean slowly growing louder with every step. Moss turning to well traversed dirt, dotted by wildflowers and buttercups. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the open sky. The wind carried salt and something colder beneath it—something old. Something though Shandrea could not name, but feel instead.
They walked side by side.
Not quite in rhythm.
Shandrea became acutely aware of everything.
The weight of her footsteps.
The soft rasp of his armor when he moved.
The way she kept opening her mouth and then closing it again.
The voices were louder here.
Not words.
Never words.
Just a low, layered murmur at the edge of hearing, like the sea was remembering something it refused to forget.
Owain noticed the silence first. He seem to did. Aware of everything, like a predator focused on their prey. “Shandrea,” he said gently, after the quiet had stretched almost too thin to bear. “We are quite far from the castle.”
Not accusatory.
Just… observant.
Careful.
“Is everything alright?”
That did it.
The dam broke.
“I am so sorry.”
The words came out in a rush, too fast, too breathless, like they had been clawing their way up her throat all night. They had.
Owain went very still.
Shandrea kept walking, the shoreline stretching thin and pale ahead of her. Sand slipped into her sandals with every step, fine grains working their way beneath her feet until they pressed and shifted against her skin. It was a small, stubborn discomfort—impossible to ignore once you noticed it. The wind coming off the ocean curled cool against her face, tasting faintly of salt, tugging loose strands of hair across her eyes. Sand filled her sandals as she walked, gritty and persistent. Much like this conversation, rubbing raw the longer it lasted.
“I removed your helm. I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t, I know that sounds like a terrible excuse but I truly—I wasn’t thinking, and that’s worse, I know it is, but everything was wrong and backwards and I was trying to orient myself and the clasp was just—it was right there and I didn’t—and I couldn't breath in that helmet. And my skin felt too tight and I just need—”
She stopped to suck in a breath.
You needed to what, water mage?
Then immediately kept rambling.
“I know your oath matters to you. I know your armor isn’t just armor and your helm isn’t just a helm and I went against that and I am so, so sorry, Owain, I would never have done it if I had been in my right mind, I would never have—I swear I wouldn't have if I was just thinking clearly. I—”
“Shandrea.”
Not sharp.
But firm enough to stop her.
Her mouth snapped shut.
The ocean breathed.
In.
Out.
Owain was very quiet for a long moment.
When he spoke again, his voice was… different.
Quieter.
Strained in a way she had never heard from him before.
“…You removed my helm.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Shandrea’s stomach dropped.
“…Yes,” she whispered.
The wind shifted, her hair blowing in the tide swept breeze, tears still prickling at her lashes.
For the first time since she had known him, Owain’s shoulders looked… tight.
Not with anger.
Not exactly.
But with something far more complicated.
“When the spell broke,” he said slowly, “I had felt—”
He stopped.
Started again.
“I had felt that the clasp had been… dislodged.”
The careful word choice did not hide the truth beneath it. Guilt flooded her chest so fast it almost hurt. It climbed out of her throat, a tidal wave of regret, until she couldn't stop it. Like last time. “I didn’t mean to let it fall,” she blurted quickly. “I mean—I did unclasp it, but I wasn’t thinking clearly and when it slipped I—I tried to catch it, I really did—and no one else was there and—but I saw it. I saw your face in the reflection of the river and I tried to forget but I just—”
Her hands twisted tighter as she remembered. The scar that etched its way across hers—his—face, the skin pale and colored an almost sickly pink shade. The way his eyes stared back at her, intense and ruined. Vile clung up her throat.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence stretched between them.
The waves rolled in, slow and steady, like the world’s oldest heartbeat.
Owain exhaled.
It was not quite steady.
“…You saw my face.”
There it was.
The real wound.
Shandrea’s voice went very small.
“…Yes.”
Barely. Just the reflection of it in the rippling river. She didn’t say that. It wouldn’t make it better.
"You saw the scar."
"Yes."
Another long pause.
When Owain spoke again, something in his voice had gone carefully, deliberately neutral. “I have kept that helm on for years.”
Her breath caught.
Years.
Gods.
“I am aware,” she said softly. “I know that makes this worse.”
“It does.”
The words were not cruel.
Just honest.
And somehow that hurt more.
The voices near the shoreline grew louder, a soft overlapping murmur that pressed at the edges of her skull. She could tell they blamed her. Shandrea ignored them, the way she always tried to, and focused instead on the rigid line of Owain’s posture. He wasn’t angry in the way she had expected.
He wasn’t shouting.
He wasn’t lashing out.
But he was… hurt.
Deeply.
Quietly.
The worst kind.
“I’ll never speak of it,” she said quickly. “To anyone. Not a soul. I swear that to you, Owain. Whatever I saw—whatever I know now—it is yours. It stays with me.”
His head tilted slightly.
The golden lion caught the light.
“…You are rambling again.”
Mortification flushed hot across her face.
“I do that when I’m nervous.”
“I have noticed.” There was the faintest hint of something there. Not quite amusement. Not quite softness.
But something less sharp than before.
The tension in his shoulders eased—just a fraction.
“I feel…” Owain paused, the word clearly chosen with care. “…violated.”
Shandrea flinched like she’d been struck. “I know. I know you do, and you have every right to, and if there is anything—anything—I can do to make this right, I.. I can!! Just tell me what to do—”
“Shan,”
Gentler this time.
She stopped again, wide eyes finding the lions eyes.
Owain was quiet for a long moment, the wind tugging softly at the edges of his cloak.
“…You brought me all the way to the ocean,” he said slowly. “To apologize.”
“Yes.”
“…You have been rehearsing this.”
Not a question.
“…Maybe.”
A pause.
Then—
Very quietly—
“…You sound sincere.”
Relief hit her so fast her knees almost went weak.
“I am,” she said immediately. “I truly am. I would never mean to do that to you, Owain. I know your oath means everything to you.”
Something flickered in his posture at that.
Not quite surprise.
Not quite gratitude.
But close.
The ocean wind rose, carrying the salt sharper now, and the voices—always the voices—pressed a little louder against her thoughts. A little short of screams, unintelligible yet there.
Owain studied her in silence for a long time.
Then, finally—
“…Very well.”
The words were quiet.
Measured.
But they were not cold.
Shandrea blinked.
“…Very well?”
“I believe you.”
Her breath left her in a shaky rush she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Oh.”
The single syllable came out soft and fragile and terribly, terribly relieved.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The tide crept closer.
The wind gentled.
And something between them—strained and delicate and quietly mending—settled into a new shape neither of them quite knew how to name yet.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Of course, Shandrea."