The memory sits heavy. Not like recalling something distant. Like remembering yesterday. Council chambers that stretched the length of city blocks. My voice echoing off stone pillars carved with dragon-wing motifs. Warriors kneeling in formation. Their trust pressing down on my shoulders until breathing hurt.
I was competent. The memories don’t lie about that. I made decisions that shaped centuries. Saved thousands. Killed hundreds.
And I hated every moment of it.
Across the aisle, Dorian scrolls through his phone. The device glows in his hands, images appearing and vanishing at his touch. He catches me watching and holds it up slightly.
“Want me to show you how it works?”
I shake my head.
He shrugs and goes back to scrolling. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t press.
I’m grateful for that.
Caleb sits forward, hunched over a screen, murmuring into a speaker. His voice is low but urgent. Coordinates. Asset movements. The aftermath of the facility raid and what comes next.
He hasn’t asked my opinion. Hasn’t sought my counsel beyond confirming Vex wasn’t just spouting rhetoric.
Also grateful for that.
Three rows ahead, Mara’s shoulders are rigid. She hasn’t looked at me since we boarded. Her screen is open on the tray table, reflecting blue light across her face. Working. Always working. Making sense of whatever details flood this always-on world she inhabits.
The bond pulls.
Not painful. Not demanding. Just… present. Like a rope stretched between us, anchored somewhere behind my ribs. When she shifts in her seat, I feel it. When she winces—trying to hide the pain from injuries my fire has been suppressing—I feel that too.
She needs me close. Not wants. Needs.
The distinction matters.
In the tomb, when the memories came flooding back, I looked at her and thought—
No. I won’t lie to myself.
I looked at her and felt relief. Sharp and immediate. Because she wasn’t Lyria. Wasn’t some cosmic replacement offered by cruel fate. If she had been, I’d have hated her for it.
But Mara is nothing like Lyria.
Lyria spoke in poetry. Mara speaks in code and conspiracy theories and references I’ll never fully understand.
Lyria died in my arms four centuries ago.
Mara survived flaming wreckage and called me K before she knew my name.
They’re not the same.
So why does Lyria’s face keep surfacing every time I close my eyes?
A screen near my seat flickers. Just a bright flash that normalizes almost instantly. But fire surges through my veins before I can stop it. Defensive. Instinctive.
Heat radiates off my skin. The air shimmers.
I lock it down. Jaw clenched. Hands pressed flat against my thighs.
Dorian glances up. Notices. Doesn’t comment.
But Mara turns.
