1
MARY
It’s too warm in the stronghold.
That’s the first thing I register when I step down the stone corridor, boots echoing over floors worn smooth by centuries of quiet footfalls and war-bound returns. The heat presses in like a wool blanket pulled too tight across the chest, suffocating despite the biting cold outside. A fire roars in the main hall—Cassian’s doing, no doubt. He’s never known moderation, not with battle, not with drink, and certainly not with firewood.
The others sit clustered around it like moths who forgot the flame burns, their silhouettes cast long and flickering against the log walls and high beams. It’s a scene that should feel like home. Brotherhood reunited, wounds stitched—some metaphorically, some literally—and the next phase of resistance beginning.
But I don’t step closer.
I linger in the archway, half-shadowed, arms folded across my chest, jaw tight with a tension that hasn’t left me in a hundred years. Everyone’s here now. That should mean the hard part’s over.
And yet, I’ve never felt more alone.
Tessa sits beside Darius, her fingers curled over his like she’s anchoring him to the earth, and maybe she is. He leans toward her unconsciously, like his center of gravity changed without asking him. They make it look effortless—trust, affection, vulnerability.
Across from them, Rafe lounges with Kaleigh practically in his lap, his usual scowl softened to something almost tender. Cassian’s got Angie tucked against his side, quietly talking her through something—no doubt something reckless she’s trying to convince him to let her film. Malek and Jennifer are seated across the long table, deep in whispered debate over battle plans, or politics, or who knows what else they turn into foreplay.
Every single one of them has someone now. Even the ones I never thought would. Even the ones who swore off softness.
I don’t envy them. I don’t resent them either. That would be easier, cleaner. What I feel is murkier, like wading through snowmelt that numbs the skin and stings the bones. Like watching something break open in everyone around you and realizing there’s nothing left inside you to crack.
The stronghold smells like cedarwood and smoke, like fresh-baked bread and leather oil. There’s laughter in the room, real and full-throated. The sound doesn’t quite reach me. It diffuses by the time it hits the edges where I stand, dulled by old stone and the weight of memory. I shift my stance, letting my shoulder rest against a timber beam, fingers toying with the silver cuff on my wrist—a gift from a sister long gone, or maybe just lost in all the years that followed.
“Cold over here?”
The voice draws me back to the present. Tessa, soft-spoken and sharper than anyone gives her credit for. She doesn’t wait for an answer as she climbs the short flight of steps to where I’m standing, her footsteps light despite the heavy wool socks peeking out over her boots. There’s always somethingunassuming about her—no posturing, no effort to command a room. And still, somehow, she does.
“It’s Alaska,” I reply dryly, keeping my gaze out the frosted window. “Cold’s part of the charm.”
The corners of her mouth tug into the kind of smile that doesn’t quite touch her eyes. It’s sympathetic without being pitying, and somehow that makes it worse. She leans casually against the wooden railing beside me, close enough so that I can feel the residual heat from the hearth still clinging to her coat.
“You don’t have to be out here, you know. Darius has every inch of the perimeter warded. Angie’s drones are running night surveillance. Malek even upgraded the shields.”
“I know,” I say, voice low. “Someone should still be watching.”
“You’re always watching.”
I glance at her then, eyes narrowing slightly. “And you’re always reading people like books you think you’ve already finished.”
“Maybe,” she admits, with that soft shrug of hers. “But the ending always changes on a reread.”
I huff something between a laugh and a scoff, rubbing at the back of my neck where tension knots like iron wire. “It’s not the ending I’m worried about.”
“You’ve always been the one keeping everyone else upright,” she says gently, eyes not leaving mine. “Even when no one noticed. Especially then.”
The silence stretches. Behind us, someone starts tuning an old violin—I recognize the distinct sound of Angie fiddling with it like a puzzle she’s determined to solve—and the hum fills the air like a ghost of something we forgot we used to love.
“I dreamt of chains last night,” I murmur.
Tessa doesn’t flinch. Just nods like she’s been expecting that.
“Chains?”
“Foxfire. Smoke. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.”
She doesn’t dismiss it. That’s not her way. “A vision?”
