Duck Lake The last of kings

Gjalla’s chest tightened at his confession, the rawness in his tone wrapping around her heart like a vice. She should have been unmoved—she’d told herself as much when she walked away. But hearing him admit he couldn’t remember, that the pieces of their past had slipped from his grasp, was a blow she hadn’t anticipated.

Her ears flattened against her skull, and her glare softened for just a moment. She looked at him—truly looked at him—and saw the cracks beneath the surface, the vulnerability he wore like an ill-fitting cloak. She watched him, studied him, as if every shift of his gaze, every crack in his voice, was another piece of a puzzle she no longer wanted to solve.

“What do you remember?” Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but there was a tightness at the edges, a faint waver she cursed herself for. She let out a slow, measured breath, as if steadying herself while he spoke, relayed the last fragments of his memory all for her to crush them to dust beneath her foot.

Her voice softened then, just barely, and she took a step closer, though the space between them still felt insurmountable. “What we had... it wasn’t what you think. I didn’t leave because of you. I left because of me.”

“I wasn’t ready. For you. I didn’t want to be tied to something I couldn’t fully give myself to. And I couldn’t pretend that I loved you the way you loved me.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed on, unwilling to let herself falter now. “I was your friend. That’s all I ever wanted to be.” Ever would be. The words were harsh, but there was no cruelty in them. If anything, they carried a quiet sort of pity, a sadness she didn’t know how to fully articulate.