She laughed. “And you’d go right back to it the next day.”
“The never-ending cycle,” I murmured. “Fight, heal, fight again.”
Salvatore’s gaze met mine across the fire. There was warmth there—something fierce and unspoken that reached back through every scar and every year.
“That’s where it began,” he said quietly. “The bond. You, me, and Amara. We learned early that if the world wanted to knock us down, we’d rise together.”
I lifted the jug, the fire’s reflection glimmering inside it. “To that, then.”
Salvatore raised his arm in answer. “To the fights that made us, and the hands that mended us.”
Amara smiled, shaking her head. The wind carried her laughter across the dark, and for a moment, everything truly did feel as if it might be all right again.
I looked at them—the two constants of my life—Salvatore, as fierce as fire, and Amara, the quiet heart that had always held us together. The fire painted them in gold, their faces open, alive, unguarded.
“We’ll always have each other,” I said softly. “No matter what comes. The three of us—forever.”
Amara reached across the space between us, her fingers warm from the flame as they found mine, then Salvatore’s. “No one will ever break us apart,” she whispered.
Our hands met above the fire, shadows merging into one. The sea murmured beyond us, as if the gods themselves bore witness to the vow we made beneath their moon.
For that moment, I believed it.
I believed the world had finally given us mercy.
But mercy was a lie the gods told before they took everything back.
And peace never lasted long beneath a sky like that.
Chapter8
Lazarus
The morning broke through my dreams like shattered glass—sharp, blinding, and too bright to trust.
Light spilled over the sand in molten ribbons, glinting off the still sea. The air smelled of salt, cedar smoke, and last night’s embers, and for a moment I almost believed the gods had forgiven us.
Amara slept beside me, half wrapped in her cloak, her hair tangled with sand. I brushed a few grains from her cheek. She stirred, smiled, and sank back into the warmth.
Salvatore lay sprawled near the dying fire, limbs thrown wide, brow creased in the struggle of some dream. Even in sleep, the war refused to release him.
I pushed to my feet, my muscles aching from the cold ground. The remains of the fire were nothing but blackened ash and the hazy scent of char. I scattered it with my sandaled foot and watched the smoke rise in thin, gray coils that vanished into the light.
Amara gathered the remnants of our meal—flatbread, figs, and wrapped them in linen. Her movements were calm, practiced. She had learned long ago how to keep her hands steady when the world shook.
A gasp broke the quiet. Salvatore jerked awake, chest heaving, eyes wild as if he expected to see the enemy cresting the dunes. His gaze darted until it found me, and slowly, the terror faded.
He groaned, rubbing his temple. “By the gods, that wine was poison.”
Amara gave a small laugh. “I’ll brew something for you when we’re home.” Her voice was soft, but it carried the tone of someone who had said those words too many times.
She tore the bread and handed us each a piece. We ate as we walked, the sand cool beneath our feet, the sea whispering behind us.
For the first time in years, the silence between us wasn’t heavy. It was peace—fragile, but real. Not the kind that came with feasts or gold, but the kind that grew from surviving what should have killed you. Amara’s hand brushed mine, grounding me, reminding me that we had made it through.
The path home wound through fields of ripened barley, their golden heads whispering in the wind. The promise of harvest scented the air with earth and grain. Mist still clung to the low hills, softening the world into something almost gentle. For a fleeting heartbeat, everything felt reborn—cleansed, as though the blood of war had finally washed away.
Then I thought of my mother.
