Night had settled fully over the ship.

The sea was calm, almost unnervingly so, its dark surface reflecting fractured lines of moonlight as the vessel cut through the water in steady silence. Above, the sky was clear—cold stars scattered like distant embers—but it was the horizon that drew the eye.

The Iskandar Peaks.

They rose in the distance like silent giants, their snow-covered ridges bathed in pale silver light. Jagged, immense, and utterly unmoved by time, they dominated the night without making a sound. The air here was sharper, cleaner—each breath biting just enough to remind the body it was far from safe waters.

Noel stood alone near the railing, cloak drawn closer around him as the cold pressed in. His forearms rested against the metal, eyes fixed on the mountains as the ship passed along the edge of their reach. There was something oppressive about them. Not hostile—but heavy. As if the land itself was watching.

"They always look like that," a voice said quietly beside him.

Noel didn't turn in surprise. He'd already felt her there.

Selene stood at his side, her presence as natural as the night itself. She hadn't announced herself, hadn't disturbed the silence. She simply existed beside him, gaze lifted toward the peaks.

"Cold?" Noel asked softly.

"A little," she replied. "But it's a familiar cold."

The wind tugged gently at her short blue hair, silvering its edges in moonlight. She rested her hands against the railing, posture composed, eyes steady on the mountains ahead.

"They're closer than they look," Noel said.

Selene nodded. "They always are."

For a moment, neither spoke. The ship continued forward, its hull whispering through the water. From this distance, the peaks seemed endless—layer upon layer of frozen stone and snow, stretching beyond sight.

Noel glanced at her then, really looked.

Selene's expression wasn't awe. Nor was it fear.

It was distance.

Like someone looking at a place they knew intimately—but no longer belonged to.

'This place weighs differently for her,' Noel thought. 'It's not just scenery.'

"You've been quiet," he said.

Selene exhaled slowly. "There's not much to say."

Her eyes traced the ridgeline, following the sharp rise and fall of the mountains as if mapping old memories she had no intention of revisiting.

"This is Iskandar territory," she said at last.

Noel waited, letting the words breathe.

Selene's voice remained calm when she continued, but there was something firm beneath it—unyielding.

"These mountains…" She paused, then finished quietly, "They don't change. No matter how much time passes."

Her gaze hardened just a fraction.

"People do."

Selene let the silence settle after her last words.

The wind slipped between the rigging, carrying the dry cold scent of snow and stone even from this distance. The ship moved steadily forward, its lanterns casting long reflections across the dark water below.

Noel kept his gaze on the mountains for a moment longer before speaking.

"Iskandar," he said quietly. "It must feel… strange. Passing this close."

Selene didn't look at him right away.

"Strange isn't the right word," she replied. "It would be strange if I felt something familiar."

She finally turned her head slightly, eyes still fixed on the peaks. "This isn't returning. It's just… passing near."

Noel nodded once. He understood the distinction.

They stood like that for a few seconds, side by side, neither rushing the conversation forward.

Then Noel spoke again, carefully.

"And your mother?" he asked. "How are things… now?"

The question hung between them.

Selene's fingers tightened briefly around the edge of her cloak. Not in anger—more like habit. A reflex that hadn't entirely faded.

"They're the same," she said after a short pause. "They've always been."

Noel didn't interrupt.

"I don't forgive her," Selene continued, voice even. "I don't consider her my mother. That hasn't changed."

She exhaled slowly, breath visible in the cold air. "But I don't wake up angry anymore."

That, at least, was new.

Noel glanced at her—not with surprise, but with attention.

"The anger used to be loud," she went on. "It filled everything. Every memory. Every thought about this place." Her gaze drifted back to the mountains. "Time dulled it. Not because she deserves it—but because carrying it forever was exhausting."

He said nothing. He didn't try to frame it as healing or growth. Selene didn't need that.

"She tried to fix things," Selene added quietly. "In her own way. Too late. And for the wrong reasons." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't hate her. Hate still gives someone power."

Noel rested his forearms against the railing, mirroring her posture.

"But forgiveness," Selene said, firmer now, "isn't something people are owed just because time passed."

The moonlight caught the edge of her eyes—clear, steady, unflinching.

"I don't judge someone for their mistakes," she finished. "But I don't have to accept them into my life either."

Noel inclined his head slightly.

"That's fair," he said. No argument. No correction.

Selene let out a quiet breath, tension easing just a fraction from her shoulders.

Selene remained quiet for a few seconds longer, gaze still fixed on the moonlit peaks. The wind tugged gently at her coat, carrying the clean, sharp scent of snow and stone.

"…What do you think will happen?" she asked at last.

Noel turned his head slightly. "Here?"

She nodded. "Ahead."

"In the Northern Isles, you mean?"

"Yes."

Noel considered it, eyes drifting from the mountains back to the dark stretch of sea beyond them. "Honestly?" he said. "We don't know. Not really." A faint, wry curve touched his mouth. "All we know is that the timer's ticking. And this time, it's louder."

Selene glanced at him. "Still thinking in terms of time limits."

"Hard habit to break," Noel replied calmly. "But this time it's different. We're not rushing in blind. We've got more information, more people, and actual time to prepare." He paused. "That matters."

She hummed softly, acknowledging the point. "It does."

The ship creaked as it cut through the water, steady and unwavering. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Selene said, almost thoughtfully, "You've changed."

Noel blinked once. "Have I?"

"Yes," she said, turning to look at him fully now. "When we first met, we barely spoke. You were always training. Always pushing. We existed in the same space, but that was it."

He let out a quiet laugh. "That's not entirely fair. I tried."

Selene raised a brow. "You did?"

"I did," Noel said lightly. "You just kept giving me cold looks every time I approached."

Her lips twitched despite herself. "That's because I didn't trust you."

"Fair," he admitted. "You had a very effective glare."

She shook her head faintly. "I was different then. More… closed." Her gaze softened, just a fraction. "I didn't know what to do with people who weren't threats or tools."

"And now?" Noel asked.

Selene looked back toward the peaks, then the sea. "Now I know neither lasts forever."

Noel studied her profile, illuminated by moonlight—composed, sharp, but no longer distant in the same way.

"I think we both changed," he said quietly.

Selene didn't disagree.

The cold deepened as the night wore on.

A faint bell rang somewhere below deck—soft, distant—marking the passing of another watch. The ship continued its quiet advance, lanterns swaying gently as if lulled by the calm sea. The Iskandar Peaks slowly began to slide behind them, their towering shapes no longer dominating the horizon but still present, lingering at the edge of sight.

Selene noticed it first.

"They're fading," she said quietly.

Noel followed her gaze. The mountains were still there, but the angle had changed. Less oppressive. Less immediate.

"Feels different once they're behind you," he said.

"Yes," Selene agreed. "That's how it always is." She paused. "Things only feel heavy while you're facing them."

She shifted her weight slightly, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. The movement was small, almost unconscious—but Noel caught it.

"You don't have to stay out here," he said. "It's colder now."

Selene shook her head. "I'm fine." Then, after a beat, she added, "I don't mind the cold. It keeps things clear."

Noel smiled faintly at that. "Figures."

They stood in silence again, but it wasn't the same silence as before. It wasn't weighted by memories or old wounds. It was steadier. Shared.

After a moment, Selene spoke again.

"Noel."

He turned slightly toward her. "Yeah?"

She didn't look at him right away. Her gaze stayed on the dark water, where moonlight broke into fractured silver with every wave.

"…Thank you," she said.

The word was simple. Bare. It carried no weight of obligation—only honesty.

Noel blinked once. "For what?"

She exhaled softly, as if choosing her words with care.

"For showing up," Selene replied. "In my life." A pause. "Even when you didn't belong here."

Noel stiffened just a fraction—but didn't interrupt.

"I know you came from somewhere else," she continued calmly. "Another world. Another life. You didn't owe this place anything. You didn't owe us anything."

Her fingers rested lightly against the railing.

"And still… you stayed."

The wind tugged at her coat. She finally turned her head toward him, eyes steady, clear.

"You didn't try to change me," Selene said. "You didn't demand trust. You didn't tell me how I was supposed to feel." A faint curve touched her lips. "You just… existed. And somehow, that mattered more than anything else."

Noel felt something tighten in his chest.

"I'm not good at saying things like this," Selene added quietly. "But I wanted you to know."

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once.

"I'm glad I was here," Noel said.

Selene looked back toward the sea.

"So am I."

The ship sailed on beneath the Iskandar moon, carrying them forward—away from the mountains, and closer to whatever waited beyond them.

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