“I just feel a little... weak,” I manage, panting hard. “Must be the after effects of the poison.”
It’s nothing. A passing rush. I just want to laugh it off, pull him back in, feel his mouth again, lose myself in that body for just one more second?—
But he goes still, his grip tightens on me, just for a second, before he pulls back, enough for the cold to rush in where his body had been, just enough for me to see his face. Something flickers there. Not confusion, not concern, fear.
“What did you say?” His voice tense now.
I brace my hands on the wall behind me, steadying myself. “I said I felt weak…?”
His jaw locks, and for a moment, he’s somewhere else, gone. Then finally, he turns and walks a few steps away, his eyes desperate for anything else but mine.
“This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have—” Voice cracking as he runs both hands through his hair, fingers locking behind his head—arms pulled tight, every muscle straining like stillness is the only thing keeping him from doing something worse. “Fuck, Bloom.”
My chest tightens, just a flicker, but it’s enough. Hearing him say it out loud shouldn’t hit this hard. But it does, and it's so fucking stupid because I know it too. I know what this was, a fleeting moment. A mistake. He warned me.
I’m not myself beyond the Veils. I say things, do things, I don’t mean. Things I’ll regret.
And still, I dove in anyway. Knowing full well I hate him, hate what he represents. It was stupid, reckless.
A twitch at my hand, my Threads stir—quiet, faint, off, and the reality of the situation hits: if the poison hadn’t flared back up… would I have even stopped?
God, Lyra, what's wrong with you?
I don’t even trust him. He’s hiding things, I know it. Did he know tonight was coming? I didn’t even ask. What was I thinking? I let myself forget, what he is, what I am. Let it slide for just long enough to want something I should’ve known better than to touch.
I could blame my emotions, the wreck of a night I’ve had.
But I can’t. Because even knowing who’s standing in front of me… I still want more.
The cold of the wall bleeds through my back. It slows my breath, but not enough, it’s still deep, still heavy.
In front of me, Talen drops his hands from his head but still doesn’t turn my way. He takes a deep inhale, then: “Tell Ezzy I’ll be waiting at the outpost.” He shifts slightly, like there’s more on the edge of his tongue, but nothing comes. Then he turns and disappears down the hill without looking back.
And I’m alone.
For a moment, I can only pull in air, shaky and uneven, the aftershock of him still thundering through me.
It's quiet. The only sound is the distant crackle of fire, still feeding on the remains of Ashvale.
What just happened?
Not just the kiss. All of it. The fire, the poison, the screaming. How can so much shift in a single day? A singlesecond?
This afternoon, I was home, safe. I’d made it. And now?
I'm choosing,choosing, to walk back into the very place I swore to burn down. And Bren, god, what does this even mean?
I just stand there, dragging in air, or trying to, because all at once—it’s too loud in my head.
And underneath it, just faint, there’s something else. A wrongness. Quiet, but there. Like the poison has hollowed me out. My Threads feel... thin. Like they’ve been wrung dry. Used up.
I stay there, leaning against the old chapel, unable to move, looking out over Ashvale—what’s left of it—as the frantic rhythm inside me unwinds, beat by beat.
Then a few minutes later, footsteps crunch over loose stone. Ezzy and Bren crest the ridge—Ezzy in front, a heavy iron cooking pot cradled in her arms, steam curling over the rim.
“We got the water!” she shouts, breathless and triumphant. Then her pale brow furrows, eyes darting past me. “Wait, where’s Talen?”
“He—he had to go.” I say too fast. “He said he’d meet you at the outpost. It’s okay, the pain’s gone, we found... another way.”
