I think about Ironhold. About the village I gave everything to protect. They’re safe now—Karax put them under his personal protection after the Greymun confrontation—but they don’t know why. Don’t know what I sacrificed, what I lost, what I became.
They think I’m dead. Or worse, that I abandoned them.
Part of me wants to laugh. I spent eight years killing myself for that village, and they probably didn’t notice I was gone. Just like my parents never noticed when I left the forge. Just like no one ever notices when the useful tool gets put back in its drawer.
But there’s another part of me—a smaller, quieter part—that needs to see it one more time. The forge. The village. The place where I learned what it meant to be needed, even if I was never loved.
I need to know if there’s anything left of me that isn’t defined by what other people wanted from me.
The decision crystallizes in my mind like frost on glass.
I’m leaving.
Not forever—I don’t know if “forever” is even possible, with the bond tying me to him—but long enough to find myself. Long enough to figure out if any of what I feel is real. Long enough to prove that I’m more than the broken thing this separation has made me.
And if I die on the road to Ironhold?
At least I’ll die choosing something. At least I’ll diefree, instead of wasting away in a stone box because my own biology has betrayed me.
I dress in the fighting leathers I wore on the day of my trial. They hang loose on my frame now—I’ve lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose. The leather smells faintly of mountain stone.
Of him.
I push the thought away and head for the stables.
The guards don’t stop me.
Maybe Karax ordered them not to. Maybe they can sense through some Stone Court magic that I’m the Guardian’s omega and therefore free to come and go as I please. Either way, they step aside when I approach the gate, their bronze faces carefully blank.
I see the way they look at me, though. The way their eyes widen at my gaunt frame, my trembling hands, the death-pallor of my skin.
“Where are you going, my lady?” one of them asks. His voice is gentle. Too gentle. The voice you use with someone who’s dying.
“Ironhold.” The word feels strange in my mouth—home, but not home anymore. Was it ever home? Or was it just another place that used me? “I need to see my village.”
“Shall we arrange an escort? You seem…” He hesitates. “Unwell.”
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes like ash. “I’m going alone.”
The guard exchanges a glance with his companion. I see the conflict in his expression—duty to the Guardian warring with whatever orders he’s been given about my freedom.
“The Guardian will want to know,” he says finally.
“Then tell him.” I gather the reins in my hands—and almost drop them, my grip is so weak. “Tell him I’m going home. Tell him—” My voice catches. “Tell him I don’t know if I’m coming back. Tell him I might not survive the journey.”
I stop. What is there left to say?
Tell him I need him. Tell him I hate him. Tell him I can’t tell the difference anymore. Tell him he’s the first person who ever chose me, and I don’t know how to forgive him for making that matter.
“Tell him I’m sorry,” I finish. “For whatever that’s worth.”
The guard nods slowly, something like respect flickering in his ancient eyes. Or maybe pity. I can’t tell anymore.
I ride through the gates before I can change my mind.
The mountain path stretches out before me, winding down toward the human territories, toward the village I sacrificed everything to protect. Every step the horse takes sends waves of pain radiating through my bond-sick body.
Behind me, I feel the bond pull taut like a rope around my heart.
