Rook nodded once, already calculating logistics in her head. “I’ll get teams working on the shelters. Water, filters, whatever medical supplies we can spare.”
“We can’t spare any,” Samuels interjected.
“We’ll make it work.” Rook’s tone left no room for argument. “What else?”
“Double the patrols along the northern edge. If they come on foot or in vehicles, that’s where they’ll hit first.” Jameson pointed to the map. “And I want a meeting with the Cardinal rebel leaders. I want to speak with Farrow about the credit situation. If food stops flowing from the Heart completely, we need to know immediately.”
They continued for another hour, working through contingencies, allocating their dwindling resources. As they spoke, Jameson felt the weight settling heavier on his shoulders. So many lives depending on him making the right calls. So many ways to fail them.
Rook and Samuels finally moved to the door, readying to carry out orders when Jameson stopped them.
“There is one more thing.” He paused, tapping his knuckle on the desk’s scarred surface. They would not like this. “In two days, I will be going into the Heart with Jaeger and his men to get Shade out.”
“You can’t,” Rook blurted, her brow creasing as she shook her head. “We need you here, Ghost. We can’t risk losing you. Let the Daggermouths take care of their people. You need to take care of yours.”
Jameson stared at her for a long moment, letting her words settle—the divide in them.Their people. Her words held no malicious intent, but they scratched at his mind wrong. “There is no them or us. Not here, not in the Boundary,” he said, his voice stern. “It doesn’t matter if you choose to call yourself a rebel or a Daggermouth, the reality of our situation doesn’t change. We all want the same thing,to live.”
“Jay . . .” Samuels started, but he held up his hand to stop him.
“I’m not asking permission. We need her—I . . .Ineed her home. I won’t abandon her, just like I wouldn’t abandon you. I have to at least try. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”
The room stayed silent as they both stared back at him, their concerned expressions softening into understanding.
“If, for some reason, I do not come back—Rook, you will take my place until the rebels elect a new leader. But believe me, I have no intention of dying in the Heart.”
He watched as the possibility of that responsibility settled on Rook’s shoulders, watched her throat work, her eyes dart to Samuels before she gave one curt nod. They filed out of the room silently, shutting the door behind them as Jameson’s hands splayed out on the desk.
He leaned his weight onto them, letting his head hang for only a moment before blowing out a long breath and straitening. His hand scrubbed down his face as he moved to the window, pushing aside the metal sheet with the other to look out over the camp.
Fires burned lower now, the night growing colder. Shadows moved between structures—guards changing shifts, medics making rounds, parents walking crying children who couldn’t sleep from hunger.
His fingers found the deep scar that ran from collarbone to rib cage, tracing its familiar path over the tattered fabric of his shirt. His first lesson in Heart savagery, delivered by a Veyra officer who’d caught him stealing medicine for his dying sister. The officer had smiled while cutting him, explaining the anatomy lesson as blood soaked through Jameson’s shirt. His sister had died anyway, the medicine he’d finally stolen arriving too late.
The memory lingered in the front of his mind, often resurfacing even fifteen years later. The image of her perfectly still on her cot when he entered their makeshift home with the antibiotics, the coldness of her skin when he had tried to wake her. He’d stayed with her for days holding her lifeless hand, tears streaming down his face as the last of his family left him alone in this city.
He had chosen then to become a smuggler, sworn it to her. He couldn’t save her, but he could save others. At the very least, he wouldtry.
Jameson closed his eyes, listening to the distant sound of someone singing, voice cracking with emotion over the words of that anthem but never faltering. He let the sounds wash over him, let himself feel the fear he couldn’t show the others. Let himself feel the absence of her.
He would find her. Or she would find her way back to him. Those were the only possibilities he would allow himself to consider. Anything else was unthinkable.
The song outside grew louder as more voices joined in, a ragged chorus of defiance floating over the Boundary like a prayer. Or maybe, it was a promise.
Chapter seventeen
YouDon’t Get To Say That
Lira’sfootstepsechoedthroughthe empty training hall, each scuff of her heel against marble a small echo in the silence. Dawn had barely breached the horizon, painting the tall windows in washes of pale gold that transformed the austere space into something almost beautiful. She preferred the facility like this—vacant, peaceful, hers alone for the precious hour before the Veyra officers arrived to shatter the solitude with their presence. In fact, it was the only time she was allowed in these training rooms—when no one could see her.
Her fingers trailed along the polished wood of the weapon racks as she passed, an unconscious habit born from years of coming here to watch her brothers train. Of course, as a woman, she was never allowed to touch one.‘Females have no place training beside men, Lira,’ her father had said. ‘Your place is behind us, ready to be called on when needed. Not beside, never beside.’
The memory collected in her mind as the materials glided across her skin. Each blade, each staff, each training weapon she was determined to master now. She would never admit this to anyone, never even say it out loud—but she was envious of the women in the outer rings. That they were trained to protect themselves, that the rebels did not let gender keep you from fighting, from leading.
Her mask felt heavier this morning, the rose gold pressing against her temples with unusual weight. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep—the hours spent pacing her chambers, mind racing with worry for Greyson, for the tenuous peace that hung by threads between them all. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that today, she was delivering a mask that would pull on those threads.
Lira shrugged out of her jacket as she dropped her duffel bag and tossed it to the floor. Her fingers slid through her dark strands as she approached the mat, securing it in a ponytail on the back of her head as she slipped off her shoes. She bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the slight give of the padded surface.
Her muscles remembered her training with Callum even before her mind directed them, body falling into the familiar stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. The first breath came deep and centering, drawing oxygen down to her core as Callum had taught her. The second expanded her rib cage, lifting her posture to achieve perfect alignment. The third—
