For a while, they didn't speak. The night around them felt alive, not in the chaotic way of battle or storms, but in the quiet pulse of a world that simply was. Wind stirred the ivy on the academy walls, making faint whispering sounds. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.

"Do you ever think," Merlin said finally, "how strange it is to just… stop?"

Elara glanced sideways. "Stop?"

"After everything. The labyrinth. The tests. The little games." He exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the stars. "It feels like I'm supposed to keep moving, like if I slow down I'll wake up and all this will vanish."

Her gaze softened. "It won't vanish, Merlin."

He turned toward her. "You sound sure."

"I am." She stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against his arm, not holding, just anchoring him there. "This is real. The air, the stone, the cold. You've bled here. That makes it real."

He stared at her, the flickering light painting her face in gold and silver. "…You really think pain is proof of reality?"

Her violet eyes lifted to meet his. "Sometimes it's the only proof we get."

Merlin smiled faintly. "That's morbid."

"That's life," she said quietly.

They stood close enough now that their shoulders nearly touched. Her presence was steady, grounding, like standing beside a blade so sharp it hummed without moving.

He watched her profile, the faint tension in her jaw, the way her ears twitched once before settling. There was something about her stillness that wasn't born of calm, but control.

"Elara," he said, his voice lower now, "you don't have to pretend you're fine all the time."

Her head tilted slightly. "Neither do you."

He smirked. "Touché."

A pause, then—

Her tone softened. "You… really are impossible, Merlin Everhart."

"I've been told that," he said.

She turned fully toward him now. The distance between them narrowed to a breath. The world shrank to lanternlight and shadows, her eyes glowing faintly violet under the night.

"You should go rest," she murmured. "Tomorrow starts a new cycle. You'll need your strength."

"I'll rest when you do."

"Always defiant."

"Always."

Her breath caught in the smallest laugh. "I suppose that's part of why…"

She stopped.

He watched her carefully. "Why what?"

Her gaze flicked down, then back up, searching his face. "Never mind."

Merlin didn't move. "You can't start a sentence like that and stop halfway."

"I can if I'm wise enough."

He leaned in slightly, his tone teasing. "Then what does that make me?"

"Predictable."

He grinned. "You've been thinking about me, then."

Her eyes narrowed faintly, but there was warmth in the motion. "…You're unbearable."

"Maybe," he said. "But you're still standing here."

She didn't respond. Instead, she reached out, slow, deliberate, and adjusted the collar of his uniform. "You never fix this," she muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. "You could've just told me."

"I tried. You never listen."

"That's because you always sound annoyed when you talk to me."

She let out a soft, short laugh. "Maybe that's the only way to get your attention."

Merlin's smile faded just slightly, replaced with something quieter. "…You had it anyway."

Her hand paused on his collar. The lanterns above flickered once, wind curling through the space between them.

"Elara—"

"I know," she said softly. "You don't have to say it."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Yes, you were."

Merlin exhaled, half defeated, half amused. "You're impossible."

Her lips curved faintly. "I've been told that."

They left the gardens sometime after midnight, but neither could recall exactly when. The world outside the academy was still, the horizon faintly blue where dawn would soon break.

Merlin walked beside her down the empty corridor, footsteps echoing off stone. The lanterns along the walls dimmed automatically as they passed, trailing faint shadows behind them.

Elara slowed when they reached the fork that split toward the student dorms and the instructor's wing.

"This is where we part," she said.

"For tonight," Merlin replied.

"Don't sound so certain."

"I'm choosing to be."

She looked at him, and something unreadable crossed her expression, something between pride and hesitation. "…You've changed, Merlin."

"Since the labyrinth?"

"Since the day you stopped hiding behind it."

He held her gaze. "And you?"

She smiled faintly. "I've changed too. I just hide it better."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You really do think you're mysterious, don't you?"

"Maybe I am."

"You're not."

"Oh?" Her eyebrow lifted slightly. "Then what am I?"

He thought for a long moment, then said quietly, "Someone worth staying for."

Elara's breath hitched. Her composure flickered just long enough for him to see it, the brief, raw emotion that hid behind her calm.

She recovered quickly, but her voice was gentler now. "You shouldn't say things like that unless you mean them."

"I do," Merlin said. "Every word."

The silence after that felt fragile, like one wrong breath could shatter it.

Elara stepped closer again, eyes never leaving his. "…Then don't regret it later."

"I don't plan to."

She studied him one last moment, as if memorizing his face in that dim light, and then, without a word, she reached out and brushed her fingers against his cheek. A fleeting, quiet touch.

Then she turned, walking toward the instructor's corridor.

Her voice floated back, calm, measured, but softer than before. "Goodnight, Merlin."

He watched her disappear around the corner before murmuring, "Goodnight, Elara."

When he finally reached his dorm room, the city beyond the academy was still dark. He peeled off his jacket, dropped into the chair by the window, and looked out.

The moon was high, its light catching the tops of the towers and the edges of the academy walls. Somewhere in the courtyard below, a single lantern still drifted, stubbornly refusing to fade.

Merlin watched it until his eyelids grew heavy.

It reminded him of her, bright, untouchable, but still choosing to linger.

He let out a slow breath, half a laugh under it. "You'll drive me insane, Elara."

Then he leaned back, eyes half-closed, and let the quiet of the night settle around him.

For the first time in a long while, the peace didn't feel borrowed.

It felt earned.