A tear slides down my cheek, and I swipe at it uselessly.
“That thing hunting us—it isn’t Nyxos,” I say, and Ryder’s shoulders stiffen, breath freezing. “It’s a part of him. A Siphon.Sent to drain enough energy from us… from this world… to set him free.”
Ryder’s hand moves to his hair, tugging hard, lips pressed into a flat, brittle line.
“And the Gods?” he mutters, voice cracking with anger. “Why can’t they help us?”
“The Siphon is blocking them. Jamming everything. It’s why Oriah couldn’t reach me.” My voice is barely audible. “If any of them get close… he’ll drain them. And then Nyxos…” The rest sticks in my throat. I can’t say it. I can’t bear it.
I try to stand, but my knees buckle under the weight of the truth, and I fall, palms hitting the cold ground. “It’s all my fault— it’s all my fault.” The words spill out between sobs I can’t control, my vision swimming, my breath refusing to steady.
Ryder is on the ground with me in an instant, arms wrapping around me so tightly it almost hurts. His voice cracks as he speaks against my hair.
“It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do to survive.” His grip tightens—as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I cry harder, burying my face in his shoulder. “It is… If Nala dies… If any of us die… It’s because of me.”
“No, it’s not, Asha.” His voice sharpens—not unkindly, but fierce. “You had to save yourself because of me.” He holds me tighter still, as if trying to take the weight from my chest and place it onto his own. “I’ll take the blame. Not you.” A breath trembles out of him. “I’ll take the blame.”
For a moment, I sit there in his arms, the world blurred through tears, my sobs shaking both of us. I wipe my face on his shirt, leaving streaks of red and salt.
For that moment, breathing is just a little easier—
even if the weight hasn’t gone.
I pull away from him, breath catching as I realise just how close we are. The warmth of him still clings to my skin, butthe memory of his request—that distance he asked for—cuts between us like a blade. He seems to remember it at the same moment I do. He clears his throat and shifts back a little, eyes softening.
“Do you mind if I take a look at the sword?” he asks, eyebrows lifting gently.
Words still stick in my throat, so I simply hand it to him. The Hollow grows eerily quiet around us, as if holding its breath.
The blade glints against his face as he turns it over, and his expression melts into awe.
“Such intricate designs,” he murmurs, almost to himself. The wonder in his voice steals some of the air from my lungs. “You are really something, Asha.” A small smirk pulls at his lips, half hidden behind the steel. “You don’t even know how special you are, do you?”
His fingertip trails along the edge of the sword—too close—until it nicks him. A thin, bright line of blood blooms across his skin. My brows pinch instinctively, but he doesn’t flinch; he only studies the blade more intently, as if the wound confirms something.
“Xoro’s Gift, unlike others, doesn’t appear on a whim,” he says, voice low. “It comes when the world claws at you, when survival demands more of you than you think you have.” He leans in so close to the steel that for a moment it looks like he might fall into his own reflection. “Most who wield Xoro’s Gift forge weapons born from fear— they’re raw, rushed things crafted from nothing but desperation.”
He shakes his head faintly.
“But this sword…” He falters, and his throat works around the words as if they’re too heavy, too sacred to speak lightly. “This sword looks as though it was made with intent. With precision. As if you had all the time in the world to shape it… even though you didn’t.”
He finally looks at me.
And it’s the way he used to look at me—before everything complicated, before distance became a rule we both try and fail to follow. His eyes shimmer with something like reverence. Like belief. Like he’s seeing more in me than I can bear to acknowledge.
The sword gleams between us, catching the faint light of the Hollow.
“And the power inside it…” he breathes, almost in awe. “Asha… It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
And for a moment, beneath the steady glow of the steel, all I can do is look at him—really look at him.
Wishing, foolishly, desperately, that I could swim in his eyes forever.
That the world would stop tearing itself apart long enough for me to drown in the way he’s looking at me now.
“She’s awake.”
