Shaelith’s breath hitched. Her pale violet eyes softened in a way I’d never seen before, the usual razor edge melting away. Her fingers found Brynelle’s wrist, holding tight, anchoring herself.
“I love you,” Brynelle whispered, the words barely audible but carved deep.
Shaelith’s composure cracked. Just for a second. Just enough.
“Don’t,” she said, voice rough. “Don’t say it like that. Like it’s goodbye.”
“It’s not goodbye.” Brynelle’s forehead pressed against hers, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. “It’s a promise. That no matter what happens out there, you’re the reason I’m still fighting.”
Shaelith closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they shone. “I love you too,” she said, fierce and broken all at once. “So much it terrifies me.”
And then Shaelith kissed her.
Hard and desperate—like she was trying to memorise the taste of Brynelle’s lips, the warmth of her skin, the way her body fit against hers in the dark. Like this might be the last time, and she refused to waste a single second of it.
Brynelle’s hand slid into Shaelith’s white hair, tangling in the strands as she kissed her back. Their mouths moved together, a conversation spoken in touches and sighs and the trembling press of bodies that had seen too much war and not enough peace.
I looked away.
Not because I didn’t want to see it. But because it felt sacred. Private. A moment stolen from the jaws of death, and I had no right to witness it.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Brynelle rested her forehead against Shaelith’s one last time. “Ready?” she whispered.
Shaelith nodded, her hand clutching Brynelle’s wrist. “Always.”
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself back into the present. Back into the plan. Back into the cold reality that we were about to walk straight into danger with nothing but a bone shard, stolen keys, and the reckless hope that usually got people killed.
Brynelle slid the thin, broken piece of metal she had stolen—when, I had no idea, but gods bless her for it—between the lock and the door frame.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Shaelith, Bryn?”
Brynelle glanced back instantly, Shaelith pausing beside her.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “If I die in here?—”
Brynelle’s face twisted with immediate protest. “Don’t.”
“No.” I held up a hand. “Listen.”
They froze, silent, so I pushed on.
“If I die,” I said again, slower this time, steadying my breath, my heart, my resolve, “I want you to look after Mireth and Eryx.”
Shaelith’s brows lifted, her mouth parting. Brynelle blinked rapidly, before a hundred emotions flashed across her face in the space of a breath.
“You’d be excellent mothers,” I said, and it nearly cracked me open. “They’re… they’re so small. And scared. And they shouldn’t have to grow up without someone who will fight for them.” My voice broke. I hated that it did.
Shaelith scoffed. “We’re in a Nyxarian death trap and you’re talking about playdates.” But I saw it—beneath the sarcasm, the harsh edge of fear and heartache. Words that she didn’t want to speak, because speaking made it real.
Brynelle didn’t waver. She stepped closer, grasping my arm, her grip gentle. “If that’s what you want,” she whispered. “Of course. We would. I swear it.”
Shaelith didn’t speak. She looked at me over her shoulder, her lips a tight line. And then, the smallest nod.
A promise.
I nodded back.
Brynelle turned back to the door. The piece of metal wasn’t a perfect tool. It didn’t need to be. It just had to hold.
