“You don’t want to live in this world,” I say quietly. “The one that took your children from you.”
“No.” His voice cracks. “I don’t. Every morning I wake up and remember they’re gone. Every night I dream about their faces. Every moment between is just—” He stops. Swallows. “I’m so tired, Torin. I’m so tired of living in a world that killed them and expects me to just accept it. To move on. To integrate and cooperate and build bridges with the people who let them die.”
I understand. Gods help me, I understand completely.
“Then don’t,” I say.
Both Zara and Caspian look at me sharply.
“Don’t live in that world,” I continue. “Live in the one we’re going to build. Where Deep Runners don’t fade. Where surface-dwellers notice when smaller peoples need help. Where integration means mutual support instead of assimilation. Where your children’s deaths mean something because they sparked the change that saved everyone else.”
“Pretty words.” Caspian’s laugh is bitter. “You think I can help build anything? I just tried to commit genocide. I’m broken, Torin. Too broken to be fixed.”
“I thought I was broken too.” The words come from somewhere deep. Somewhere honest. “When Mira died, I thought that was it. Thought I’d spend the rest of my life drowning in isolation, doing my duty, slowly fading like every other Deep Runner. Thought letting anyone close would just mean more pain when they inevitably left.”
Zara’s hand finds mine. Squeezes gently.
“But I was wrong,” I continue. “Opening up didn’t break me further. It saved me. Loving her—” I gesture to Zara. “—didn’t make me weaker. It made me strong enough to survive losing Mira. Strong enough to imagine a future where more Deep Runners could have what we have. Strong enough to fight for that future even when it seemed impossible.”
“Your sister would want that future,” Caspian says quietly. “She was always curious about the surface. Always asking questions about integration, about whether the isolation was really necessary.” His expression softens. “She reminded me of my daughter. Same curiosity. Same hope.”
The comparison hits me in the chest. I never knew Caspian knew Mira. Never realized they had that connection.
“Then help us build it,” Zara says, stepping forward. “Help us create the world your children and Torin’s sister deserved. Where Deep Runners don’t have to choose between isolation and extinction. Where surface-dwellers actually show up whenyou need help. Where bonds like ours aren’t impossible—they’re celebrated.”
“You think integration can save us?” Caspian shakes his head. “You’re fools.”
“Maybe.” Zara spreads her wings—storm-gray with blue iridescence, marking her as changed, as something new. “But we’re living proof it can work. Look at us. We bonded. We transformed. We merged our very consciousness and came back as ourselves. We’re stronger than we were, not weaker. Changed, yes. Destroyed? No. We’re the future you could have had if you’d chosen hope instead of revenge.”
Caspian stares at her wings. At the golden veins running through my scales. At the visible proof that integration doesn’t have to mean death of identity.
For a moment—just a moment—I see something flicker in his eyes. Not quite hope. Not quite acceptance. But curiosity. The same curiosity Mira had. The same question his daughter probably asked.
What if?
Then it fades. The grief returns. The exhaustion. The absolute certainty that he’s too far gone to be saved.
“I can’t,” he says finally. “The grief is too much. I’m too broken. Every time I try to imagine a future, all I see are the faces of my children who won’t be in it.” He looks down at his hands. “I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to live either. I’m just—tired. So tired of carrying this weight.”
“Then let us help you carry it,” I offer.
“You can’t.” He says it gently. Not cruel. Just honest. “Some weights can’t be shared. Some grief can’t be healed. Mine is one of them.”
The admission breaks my heart. Because I understand. Because I’ve been there. Because if Zara hadn’t crashed into my life at exactly the right moment, I might be standing whereCaspian is now—broken beyond repair, unable to see past the pain.
But there’s a difference. I had something to live for when Zara appeared. Had duty, had purpose, had the Citadel to protect. Caspian lost all of that when his children drowned. Lost his reason for existing. And we’re asking him to find a new one when the old one is still bleeding fresh.
“I can’t help you build this future,” Caspian says. “Can’t be the bridge between old ways and new. Can’t be the example of redemption and integration.” He looks past us to where the younger Deep Runners watch from the edges. “But maybe they can.”
He raises his voice, addressing the warriors who followed him this far. “You saw what these two did. Saw them transform. Saw them save the dam when I was trying to destroy it. Saw them merge into something we didn’t know was possible and come back as individuals. They’re not corrupted. They’re not destroyed. They’re?—”
His voice catches. He clears it. Continues.
“They’re what we could become if we’re brave enough to change. What we could be if we chose evolution over extinction. What Deep Runners might look like in a future where we’re not alone anymore.” He looks at Kellan specifically. “Don’t follow my path. It only leads to more death. Follow theirs. It might actually lead somewhere.”
Kellan stares at us for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowers his weapon. The others follow suit.
“What happens to you?” Kellan asks Caspian.
