The room is quiet, save for the soft sounds of breathing from the other women soldiers. The lanterns have long been dimmed, the light of the moon peeking through the drapes casting shadows against the rough stone walls.
I lay on my back, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, my arms folded beneath my head, my mind refusing to be silent. My body is exhausted—muscles aching from training, from pushing myself too hard, from the bruises I keep pretending don’t matter.
I close my eyes but my mind won’t stop. Because today, everything changed. Because today, Thane moved before I did. Because today, I finally understood what I’ve been running from.
A warmth flickers at the edges of my mind, steady, grounding. Then, a voice—low, wise, knowing.
“You finally understand.”
I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes snapping open.“Calryx.”
“I have known all along, Virelya.”
She sounds pleased. Amused. Like she has been waiting for me to get here.
I exhale slowly, pressing a hand against my chest, against the ache I don’t want to name.“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice hums through my thoughts, warm and ancient.“Because it was never my place to tell you. You had to see it for yourself.”
I shut my eyes again, swallowing hard.“I don’t want another weight I can’t carry.”
A soft rumble echoes through the bond, gentle but firm.“Resisting changesnothing.”
I let out a ragged breath, fingers curling into the blanket beneath me.“I don’t know how to hold this.”
Calryx is quiet for a long moment.
Then,“You already are.”
The next morning, I know what I have to do, even though I have a pit in my stomach.
The sun is just beginning to rise, casting the outpost in soft, golden light. The air is sharper than it should be for summer—cool against my skin. The ground gives slightly beneath my boots.
Most of the outpost is still quiet—soldiers just beginning to stir, the smell of brewing tea filling the air. I should be in the barracks, stretching out my muscles, preparing for the day’s training sessions.
But instead—I’m here. Looking for him.
Thane is always an early riser, usually up before the rest of the outpost even blinks awake. And I have a feeling I know exactly where he is.
I find him sitting beneathmyoak tree, just beyond the edge of the training grounds.
Alone.
His back against the rough bark, one knee bent, his forearm resting lazily over it. His sword is beside him, the hilt tilted against his leg, always within reach. But for once—he isn’t tense. For once—he looks still.
Even from this distance, I see the way morning light catches in his storm-gray eyes, turning them to liquid silver. His dark hair is tousled from the wind, strands falling into his face. The sharp lines of his jaw are shadowed with stubble, his lips soft,pensive.
He looks . . . tired. Not physically. He never lets himself falter in that way. But it’s there—in the way his shoulders rest heavier than usual. In the way his fingers absently trace the hilt of his sword, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
And I realize, in this quiet moment, that I have been so focused on my own anger, my own fears, my own resistance, that I never stopped to think about what this has been like forhim. He has never questioned it. Never denied it. Even when I tried to fight it, he stayed steady.
Thane never left. Even when I gave him every reason to.
And suddenly, guilt and shame wash over me.
I exhale, forcing myself forward, stepping closer.
His eyes flick to me immediately, sharp, assessing. But he doesn’t tense. He just watches, waiting.
