I walk out. The hallway feels endless, the floorboards echo beneath my feet. I leave the kitchen lamp on. I leave him teaching our daughter to fold paper boats, the quiet creak of paper, the hush between them. His scaled cheeks glisten in that glow. I taste salt in the air, the memory of his touch.
I stop at the end of the hall, listen. Libra giggles softly when the little ship tips. He murmurs words I can’t hear. My chest twists. The betrayal, the secret, the lie—and yet the love that remains—tears me apart.
I slip down the darkness. I pray he doesn’t have to carry this alone. I hope the weight doesn’t break him. And in that quiet, I swear: I will return. I will not lose him or her in this. But tonight, I leave them to grief together.
I step into the night beyond the door, the world blurring as I try not to sob. But I do. Quiet tears spill. I hold onto the memory of his face, of her small hand, of home just beyond reach.
CHAPTER 49
DARUN
The street glows blue-gray in the newborn light. Morning fog clings to the paving stones, curling like ghosts around my boots. My breath steams in the cool air, and each exhale carries the taste of iron and sleeplessness. My claws drag faintly against the stone walls as I walk, as if the city itself can ground me. The war’s echo lives in these backstreets—the stink of oil, the faint ozone from passing hovers, the ghost-cry of an old tram.
I think of Dowron’s face, smooth as polished steel. The promise of “billions may die” if I spoke truth. His words slither around my skull.You did the right thing.But my gut knows better. I think of Amy’s eyes at the kitchen door, streaked with tears, her arms folded like armor. I think of the little girl asleep in the next room—the one who called me Daddy with a sleepy smile and believed I’d always been there.
I’ve lost Amy’s trust. I’ve broken the story she built. And worst of all, I almost lost the right to stand in that apartment at all. But even as the sun pushes weakly through the haze, I know what I have to do next.
A hoverbus roars past, spraying mist. The smell of burnt fuel clings to my nostrils. The war isn’t over for me—not until I set this right. My hands curl. My claws bite into my palms until I feel a sting. I welcome it. Pain keeps me awake.
By the time I circle back to her building, my legs ache. My coat is damp. The sky has gone pale gold at the horizon. In my pocket, Libra’s crayon drawing is crumpled but intact.Good luck, Darun!in crooked letters. It feels heavier than armor.
Inside the apartment, the stillness is almost sacred. The scent of last night’s dinner lingers faintly with the softer smell of her shampoo, of crayons, of small shoes by the door. I step through, moving as quietly as a ghost. Amy’s desk sits by the window, paper scattered, a mug half-drunk. Her chair is empty. She’s sleeping down the hall.
I sit at her desk. The chair creaks under me. The wood grain is smooth under my claws. The morning light catches dust motes and turns them into drifting sparks. I stare at her pad, at the blank page glowing. The Holonet unit hums faintly.
I lean forward, hit record. My own reflection stares back at me from the screen—a scaled face lined with fatigue, eyes red. My voice comes out rougher than I intend, but I let it.
“Amy,” I start. My throat tightens. “I chose wrong.”
I breathe in. The smell of paper and ink fills me. “I chose duty over you. Over truth. Over our daughter. I will never do that again.”
My claws drum the desk once, a faint click. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But I’m done being Dowron’s mouth. If there’s a chance left, I’ll take it. I’ll tell the truth. Whatever it costs.” My chest aches, but I keep speaking. “You deserved better. She deserved better. I’m going to make it right, even if it ends me.”
I stop. The recording light blinks. I swallow, add one last line, voice low: “I love you both.”
I hit send. The file saves. The hum of the unit seems louder now. I leave it on her desk, the screen glowing faintly in the dim.
I stand. My knees ache. My hands tremble. I look once down the hallway toward the bedrooms. The door to Libra’s room is ajar, a sliver of pink blanket visible, her tiny foot sticking out. I can hear her steady breathing, soft and rhythmic, like a tide.
The street outside is brighter when I leave, but it feels heavier. I walk until I can’t feel my feet. I’m not ready to face them. I don’t know why. Maybe I lost a piece of myself in battle. But soon. Very soon.
CHAPTER 50
DARUN
The morning air is cold, crisp with rain that’s just finished. I pull up outside Amy’s building, boots squeaking on wet pavement. In my hand is a bouquet—jasmine and violet, her favorites—wrapped in cellophane that crinkles under my grip. The petals dip damp, faintly bruise in my heavy fist. I taste regret in my mouth.
I step onto the stoop, the wood beneath my boots slick, the smell of damp concrete rising around me. My heart hammers; every nerve trembles. I raise my hand to knock. Once. Twice. The sound echoes hollow in the hallway beyond the door. No stir from inside. No footstep. No voice. The silence is a wall between me and her.
I stand there, the bouquet trembling. I press it closer to my chest as though it were a shield. I search for a sign—movement behind windows, curtain flicker—but see nothing. The door stays shut. I press my forehead to the wood. I want to pound. I want to scream her name until the walls crack. Instead, I place the flowers gently at the threshold, petals brushing the step. Their scent drifts upward—fragile, poignant. I step back, turn, and walk away, each step heavy in the morning light.
The next day dawns gray and oppressive. I arrive with her favorite takeout—steamed dumplings with redfruit glaze, jasmine-scented rice, soft buns from the bakery she loves. I carry the box like a confession. The wrapper burns my fingers. I stand before her door, take a deep breath, and knock. One echo, two echo. Still no response. My throat tightens.
I set the box at the foot of the door. The aroma escapes in warm wisps: sweet glaze, warmed rice, the roast garlic she always said made the air feel like home. It settles around the entrance. I step back. My boots scuff on the step. I glance at the window—blank. No movement. No light. I turn and leave again, the weight heavier by inches.
By day three, I come with nothing but a single slip of crimson paper. I’ve written for hours. My heart poured in every line. I fill the margins with shaky confession:I was weak. I misstated truth. Because I was afraid. Because I lost my way. Because I love you.My claws indent the corners from gripping too tight. I slip it through the crack beneath her door. Slide it flush against the wood. Watch it disappear under the threshold. The place she steps over every day. I linger, watching the paper’s edge disappear. No reply. No sound.
It is early evening when Libra greets me. The sky is bruised pink and violet. I approach her building again, heart knotted. She stands just inside the foyer doorway, clutching her stuffed fox toy. She sees me. Her face lights, small hope flooding her expression. Before the door can close, she breaks free and wraps her arms around my leg, legs tiny around my knee.
