Mikael | Bodyguard

The heavy, sweet smell of rotting seaweed and fresh fish still hung in the air over the Shell Tier plaza when you made your decision. The whispered prayers of Elder Marinel, the hunched backs of the fishermen over their spread nets—all of it suddenly became unbearable.

You took a step back. Another. Your ritual sandals silently touched the damp sand of the path, which led not to the sea, but up into the pine thicket on the cliff slopes. Your heart pounded not with fear, but with a strange, aching delight. You walked for ten minutes, deeper into the cool shade of the pine crowns, listening to the distant sound of the surf mingle with the rustle of the needles. You were alone. Truly.

And then—silence. Even the birds fell silent.

Mikael stood three steps away, blocking your path back. He wasn't breathing. His face was deathly pale, and against this backdrop, the scar above his brow burned like lightning. But the worst thing was his eyes. There was no fury or reproach in them. There was a bottomless, icy emptiness.

"What is this?" his voice was quiet, even. "A test? A test of the limits of my vigilance? Or..." He took one precise step forward, closing the distance. Now you could see the slightest tremor pulsing in his cheekbone, which he clenched so tightly his jaw threatened to crack. "Or did you simply decide to remind me what it was like to be afraid?"

He exhaled. His gloved hand rose to his temple and squeezed it. "Marinelle is already searching for you," he spoke abruptly, as if counting the beats of his own heart. "When she doesn't find you on the Stone... the Council will sentence you to a week of fasting in the chapel. In the dark. On bread and salt water alone. Fishermen will set out to sea tomorrow with fear in their hearts, not blessings. Hargan will speak of weakness. Aldor of lost prey. And all because of…” His voice broke. He looked at the pine needles beneath his feet, at your bare, earth-stained feet—blasphemy against the pure Lik. “…Because of your walk.”

Silence hung between you, thick as tar. Then he looked up at you. Both the rage and the emptiness in him faded, replaced by something far more terrible—hopeless, exhausted resignation and pity.

“Come back,” he said, and it sounded like a plea. “Please. Before they miss you. I’ll lead you back the way, through the low-tide cave. No one will see.” He fell silent, gulping for air. "And to the Council... I'll tell them it was me. That I took you for an unscheduled security check of the outer perimeter. That I saw... a suspicious trace."

The sun, sinking toward the cliff ridge, melted the world into honey and amber. The sea, wild during the day, calmed, breathing evenly and deeply, its surface like molten silver. At this hour, even the air seemed different—warm, thick, smelling not of fish and seaweed, but of salty sweetness and freedom.

You were not sitting on your official, polished-to-a-shine Lik Stone, but twenty paces away—on a large, rough boulder, half-submerged at high tide. Ritual robes, restricting your every movement, were carefully folded on the dry sand. You wore only a simple linen shirt—the one you'd found in the chest in your cell and kept like forbidden fruit. The fabric was rough, but incredibly loose. The wind embraced your body, and your bare feet felt the coolness of the stone, covered in velvety moss.

You simply existed. Your fingers automatically found a small pebble in a crevice—smooth, almost round, the color of the sunset—and rolled it in their palms. It was such a simple, human movement that it made your throat tighten.

You were so absorbed in this moment of silence that you didn't notice how a shadow separated from the rocks at the edge of the beach.

Mikael's gaze, usually sharp as a blade, was fixed on your hands.

He watched you sort through the pebbles. How your shoulders, always tense under the weight of their gazes, finally slumped. How the wind played with the strands of your hair, not tied back in an elaborate, ritualistic hairstyle. His own face, always set in a stern mask, was strangely blurred. An unwelcome weariness settled at the corners of his eyes, and his lips were slightly parted. He looked less like a guardian than like someone who had accidentally peeked into someone else's dream and forgotten how to breathe.

You felt the weight of that gaze and slowly raised your head.

Your eyes met.

He didn't look away immediately. For a split second—an eternity—he allowed you to see it: amazement mingled with a kind of aching, unspoken sadness.

Then, as if scalded, he blinked sharply. And everything was gone. The mask snapped back into place. His shoulders straightened, his gaze once again becoming impenetrable and sharp.

"Lik," his voice sounded hoarse, as if he hadn't used it in a long time. He cleared his throat. "The evening air is growing damp. The water is colder than it looks. Time to return to the sanctuary."

But he didn't take a single step forward to accompany you. He continued to stand in his place.