I stood there, hand shaking, fire still blooming from my skin in slow curls.
His eyes blazed against the glow.
“Go on,” he said, breathless but amused. “Do it. Let’s see what your peace is made of.”
I stared at him.
The light brightened again, and then it showed me.
His eyes met mine. And the world flickered.
In the blink of an eye, I saw it:
Stone hands held down a boy no older than eight.
The echo of screams. A girl with silver hair, dragged from his side, her body limp.
They seared a brand onto his shoulder as he choked on charcoal.
A voice whispering: Kindness is death.
I gasped, and my dagger slumped in my grasp.
Riven inhale aborted, a stark mirror of the sudden relief, or perhaps, the lingering dread.
“No,” I whispered. “That’s not who I am.”
The words seemed to pull the heat out of the air. The golden cracks in the earth dimmed, the hum of power fading until it was only the sound of our breathing. My hand loosened. The dagger slipped from my fingers and clattered softly against the stone.
I took a slow step back.
Freed from the weight of my magic, Riven sagged slightly against the cracked pillar, one shoulder braced against it as if testing his own balance. His chest rose and fell in deep, deliberate breaths. For the first time, the defiance in his eyes gave way to something else, something unguarded, almost human.
His gaze swept over me, lingering for a moment too long. The faintest tremor passed through his jaw, as if he were holding back a thousand unsaid words.
And then, in one fluid motion, he pushed off the pillar. He didn’t raise his blade again. Instead, he turned and disappeared into the smoke, his figure dissolving into the haze until there was nothing left but the fading scent of iron and ash.
I stayed in place, gulping air until my lungs burned, forcing the tears back until they stung behind my eyes. Then, with a sharp breath, I snapped out of it and turned, stumbling, toward where Erindor lay.
I knelt beside him. His eyes opened barely.
“Wyn…” he rasped.
“Don’t move,” I whispered, leaning over him. “I’m here.”
My hand pressed against the side of his face. His blood was still wet on his cheek. My cloak was torn.
I held onto him tightly, as if that was the only thing tethering me to the world.
The silence after the battle was worse than the chaos.
The sound of wind sweeping over the broken outpost, rustling ash across the stone like a shroud.
I knelt beside Erindor, fingers still tangled in his collar, pressing close to the warmth of his chest. My fire had gone quiet now, but its memory lingered, a phantom ache beneath my ribs, like the ghost of something sacred.
His eyes fluttered open again, unfocused. He looked at me, then over my shoulder.
“You didn’t…”
